


Holiday

by TwylaMercedes



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, Hopeless Romance (Resolved)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-06
Updated: 2017-09-21
Packaged: 2018-11-28 14:06:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 43,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11419572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TwylaMercedes/pseuds/TwylaMercedes
Summary: The Princess and the Reporter –  They came from different worlds. It was a hopeless romance and nothing could ever come of it.  But  -- what if there was more to their story? Perhaps they were able to reconcile their differences and find Happily Ever After.  Remix of Roman Holiday (with a much different, much elaborated, ending).





	1. So Happy

“Goooood daaaay Aaammmmerrrrica.!”  The pretty blonde television reporter smiled vapidly out at her early morning audience.  “This is your style reporter, Ashley de La Feu, bringing you an update on Princess Isabella’s visit to Asheville, North Carolina, the tenth stop of her much-publicized goodwill tour of American cities!” 

Images of a petite pretty brunette in high heels were flashed behind Ashley as she breathlessly continued, “Her first stop, you remember, was San Francisco, California, where she charmed the natives eating street food in famed Chinatown. Then it was off to Seattle, Washington, where, of course, she went to,” Ashley paused dramatically, “a coffee shop.  Then Denver, Colorado,  Austin, Texas, and so on in a whirlwind of eating, shopping, visiting historic sites, attending sporting and cultural events.  This gracious, young member of one of Europe’s oldest ruling families enchants crowds wherever she goes.”

“Ashley,” an older, attractive woman addressed her from across a table, “The Princess is known for her philanthropic work with children and for her fashion style, isn’t she?”

“Mallie, do you ever have that right.  At twenty-three she is already a fashion icon. She is known for wearing designer clothing and shopping at little upscale boutiques but, how can any of us forget when she, unexpectedly, dropped into a Target store in Denver, which I imagine was a security nightmare, but she came away with a cute little denim skirt and floral top, both of which promptly sold out.  Looked fantastic on her.  She just has an innate sense of style and what works for her.”

The other woman nodded, “But Ashley, isn’t this schedule a strain?  I mean, she’s been in the public eye twenty out of twenty-four hours for more than two weeks.”

“Well, anybody else keeping this schedule would have had their head explode by now.” Ashley smiled brightly at the camera, “I guess that’s what makes her a royal princess.”

**A Posh Gathering**

“Her Royal Highness.”   At this announcement, the room full of dignitaries, glittering women, and self-sufficient men, became quiet.

Princess Isabella stepped through a wide doorway dressed in one of her latest designer gowns, a lovely white dress with slight blue trim, wearing her diamond and sapphire tiara along with a sapphire necklace.  She stepped into the room and slowly made her way to the dais.  She was accompanied by an older man, the Ambassador himself, an attractive older man with a scowl on his face, dressed in a formal military uniform.  She was followed by Countess Cora du Coeur and General Le Roy Rêveur.  As she made her way down the aisle, she smiled and nodded, occasionally stopping to speak to one or the other guests.  Many bowed or curtsied as the Princess went by.  Belle, as she was known to her confidants, family members and close associates, made her way to the dais, stepped up and, smiling, turned to face the guests.  She was about to sit down when the Ambassador gave her a silent signal, touching her arm and almost imperceptibly shaking his head.  She remained standing as the guests formed a line, each to be presented to her Royal Highness.

The line seemed endless.  Belle was drawing from her French, her Italian, her Spanish, her Russian, her German, her Japanese, her Farsi and a few other languages that she had forgotten she knew, in greeting the seemingly infinite parade of guests. 

She stifled a yawn, somehow managing to keep a smile on her face.  After about twenty minutes, Belle realized that she shouldn’t have worn the shoes she selected.  They were amazing shoes, but their comfort level on a SUD scale was, at most, a two. 

Her feet were killing her. 

She glanced down.  No one could see her feet underneath her voluminous skirt.  She slipped her left foot out, all the while greeting somebody in German.  There was immediate relief and she rubbed her foot against the back of her right leg. 

She smiled at the next guest, recognizing the language as Farsi.  She put her left shoe back on.  _That felt good._  

“So good of you to come,” she greeted another guest as she slipped out her right foot and began to rub it against her left leg. 

The Duke of Weselton was announced.  The self-important emissary approached and grabbed her hand pulling her off balance, “Oh Princess.  You are more beautiful in person than in any of your pictures.”  Belle lurched and knocked over her shoe in the process. 

The Count was taken aback but recovered, assuming that his extraordinary good looks had knocked the Princess off balance.  Rêveur noticed something was not right and stepped up to keep a closer eye on the Princess. 

Belle continued smiling and greeting the seemingly endless line of well-wishers and guests, but all the while beneath her formal gown, she was frantically waving her foot about, desperately trying to set her shoe upright so she could get it back on her foot. 

But she was unsuccessful.

Finally, the last guest was greeted and it was time for her to sit down.  The band started to play a waltz.  As Belle stepped back to the chair, the offending errant shoe was left on the dais.  She made a vain attempt to draw it back under her skirt but couldn’t quite reach it.

General Rêveur saw what was happening.  He stepped in front of Princess Belle.  “Milady, would you do me the honor of this dance?” he asked her smiling.

Belle nodded and rose, moving to stand so that her dress covered the shoe and, now able to put her full attention to the task, she righted it and slipped it on.  She gave her arm to the General and they danced.  He was soon interrupted by the pompous Duke who gave Belle a lively dance.  Then they were interrupted by a solemn gentleman and then another smiling guest and so on. 

**Later that Same Evening**

Belle kicked off her shoes and collapsed onto her bed. 

“Oh no, Princess.  You’ll ruin your dress,” Cora chastised her.  Cora was from one of the oldest royal-related families in the kingdom –  but, well, not exactly.  Cora was a commoner who had married into one of the oldest families in the kingdom.  But she took the job of being royal-related very seriously. 

“So what?  It’s not like I’ll be wearing it again.  It will end up in some museum or in a charity auction,” Belle protested.  But, nonetheless, she got up and stood so that Cora could unzip her and help her out of the gown. 

“This is certainly one of the prettiest dresses you’ve had, Miss Belle,” Cora chattered on.   “You looked especially lovely tonight except for that shoe fiasco.  Who was that funny Duke that kept getting you to dance with him?”  Cora hung up the exquisite gown and then sat down in one of the deeply upholstered chairs, put on some reading glasses and picked up some crewel embroidery which she attended to while Belle finished changing her clothes.

“Duke Weaseltown or some such from Arendale.  I have no idea what he’s doing in town,” Belle replied, taking the pins out from her up-do and letting her waist length hair drop down.  She stripped down and put on a silk champagne-colored nightgown with spaghetti straps.  It was cut on the bias and surrounded her body in a swirl of flattering shimmering vanilla fabric.  Lady Cora handed her a hairbrush and Belle began to brush her hair. 

Belle looked down at her nightgown.  “Why do I have to wear this nightgown?  I hate this nightgown.  I hate all my nightgowns.  And I hate all my underwear too.”

“But dear, you have such lovely things,” Lady Cora put down her embroidery.  She was clearly puzzled at Belle’s reaction.

“But this looks like something I would wear on my wedding night.  It’s not my wedding night,” Belle protested.  “Why can’t I sleep in some little sleep shorts and a tank top?”

“Sleep shorts and a tank top!” Lady Cora was obviously scandalized.  “Oh, please tell me you aren’t thinking of taking another one of those outlandish trips to . . . what was that awful store?  Bullseye?  Red Dot?  Target?”

“But everybody loved that.  And I got the cutest little outfit,” Belle protested.

“It was a lovely one-time gesture,” Cora agreed smoothly picking up her handwork and taking a few more stitches. “But not something of which you would want to make a habit.”

Belle rolled her eyes. “Maybe I could start sleeping in something truly naughty, like panties and a man’s shirt.”  Belle considered, “Now where could I get a man’s shirt?  Maybe Le Roy would lend me one.  Certainly, that silly Duke would lend me his.”

Cora shook her head, frowning.  “Well, I certainly hope you have the good taste not to ask either one of them for their shirts.”

Belle lay down in the bed, but she felt strangely restless and could be still for only a moment.  She heard something.

“What is that sound?” she asked sitting up.  “It’s music!” She identified the sound, got up and ran over to look out the door that opened onto a balcony.

“Get your robe,” Cora called after her.  “You need to put it on and get away from the window.”  There was a knock at the door.  Cora answered it and brought a tray into the room.  “Here are your milk and cookies.”

Belle dutifully put on the matching lace-trimmed silken robe. She stepped away from the window and took the tray.  She sat on the bed and pouted.  “Everything we do is so wholesome.”

“This will help you sleep,” Cora told her, unmoved.

Belle sighed but took a drink and a nibble of a cookie.  “I’m too tired to sleep.  I won’t be able to sleep a wink.”

Cora put away the embroidery and took out a notebook.  “Now, my dear, tomorrow’s schedule.  At eight thirty, we’ll have breakfast here at the hotel with your staff.  They’ve reserved a room in the dining hall for us.  At nine o’clock, there will be a press conference here.  You will be meeting with a,” she paused.  What she had next to say was distasteful. “A herd of reporters,” she finished.

Belle began to rub her head, “Sweetness and Decency.” She named the memorized speech and crossed her eyes.

“At ten o’clock,” Cora continued unperturbed, “we leave for the Polinory Automotive Works where you’ll be presented with a small car.”

Belle sighed, playing with the napkin that had been placed under her cookies, “Thank you,” she said in a monotone.  She seemed subdued.

“Which you will _not_ accept,” Cora admonished her.

“Oh.  No, thank you,” Belle corrected herself, still in her monotone.

“At eleven, you will visit the Western North Carolina Farmer’s Market where you will be presented with a large basket of fruit and vegetables.”

“No, thank you,” Belle repeated, her mood continuing to drop.

“Which you _will_ accept,” Cora corrected her.

“Thank you.”

Cora continued, “At twelve, you will go to Mission Hospital and preside over the opening of their new pediatric wing.  You will give the same speech as you did in Houston.

Belle furrowed her brow, “Trade Relations?”

Cora shook her head, “No dear, not for the children.”

Belle thought a moment, “Youth and Progress.”

“Precisely,” Cora confirmed.  “Then at one o’clock, we will return here for you to rest . . . ,” she looked down at the schedule.  “No, that’s wrong.  Oh yes, at one o’clock, there will be a luncheon with the Governor and several state representatives.  What do you think? Prada or Vera Wang?” 

“The Tom Ford,” Belle said dully and finished her milk. 

“Oh yes, that dress would be perfect.  Now at three o’clock, you will be presenting a plaque to city leaders in Pack Square, downtown Asheville.

Belle nodded her head as if she was talking to someone, “Thank you.”

Cora continued, “At four forty-five, you will review the police . . .”

Belle nodded her head again, “How do you do?”

“Then you will come back here to change into a formal dress . . .”

Belle continued to nod her head, “Charmed.  . . . So happy . . . Delighted.”

“So you can meet with the International . . . “

Belle suddenly screamed out up-ending her tray with the glass and plate on it. “STOP!!!  Please stop! Stop!”  She was crying.

Cora retrieved the tray, the glass, and the plate.  “It’s all right dear.  Nothing’s broken.”

Belle had thrown herself back on her bed and shut her eyes.  She shouted out, “I don’t care if it’s broken or not!  I don’t care if it’s shattered!”

Cora stood and calmly surveyed the situation.  “My dear, you’re ill.  I’ll send for the doctor.”

Belle covered her face with a pillow.  “I don’t want to see Doctor Whale! Just let me die in peace!”

Cora gave an exasperated sigh, “You are not dying.”

Belle, furious, sat up and shouted at Cora, “Leave me!” When Cora didn’t move, Belle shouted at her again, “Leave me!”

Cora shook her head, “It’s just nerves.  Control yourself, Princess.”

Belle threw herself back on the bed and pounded her fist into the bed, “I.  Don’t.  Want.  To!”

Cora made a decision.  “I’m going to get Doctor Whale,” and she headed for the door.

Belle sat up and shouted out after Cora, “It will do no good.  I’ll be _dead_ before he gets here.”  And then she threw herself back onto the bed again.

**The Good Doctor**

Cora soon returned with Dr. Whale and General Rêveur.  The threesome walked over to the bed and the doctor looked at Belle, who didn’t move.

Dr. Whale turned to Cora, “She’s asleep.”

Cora sniffed, “I doubt it.  She was in hysterics three minutes ago.”

Dr. Whale put his bag on the table and bent over to her, “Princess Isabella, ma’am, are you asleep?” he asked gently.

There was a muttered, indistinct, “No!”

“All right then.  Let’s make sure you aren’t running a fever,” and he took out an old-fashioned mercury –based thermometer and popped it into Belle’s mouth.   “I’ll only disturb you a moment.”

Belle talked to him around the thermometer, “I’m very ashamed, Doctor Whale.  I . . . suddenly. . . there was music. . . and then we went over the schedule . . . and I just started crying.”  And tears began to streak down her face.

“You’ve been under a lot of pressure, Princess Isabella.  A few tears are understandable,” the doctor told her kindly.

General Rêveur asked the Doctor, “Will she be calm enough to face this press conference, Doc?”

Belle took the thermometer out and she spoke rapidly, “Don’t worry everybody.  I’ll be calm and relaxed and I  . . .  I’ll smile and . . . I’ll improve trade relations . . . I will make all the sick children feel better . . . “ And the longer she talked, the more tears flowed.  Belle threw herself on one of her pillows and started to sob again. 

“There she goes again,” Cora remarked.  “Please Doctor Whale.  Can’t you give her something?”

“Let’s see here,” Doctor Whale turned and began to look through his bag.  “I think I may have just the thing.   A little liquid courage.”  And he pulled out a syringe.  

General Rêveur watched alarmed and stepped away from the group.

“What is that?” Belle asked, peering up at him.

“Oh, just something that will make you sleep and help you relax.  It may make you feel a little happy.”  He readied the injection and as he gave Belle the shot, General Rêveur hit the floor in a dead faint.  “There you go,” Dr. Whale reassured the Princess.

“I don’t feel any differently,” Belle said immediately. 

Dr. Whale gave her a gentle smile.  “Your Highness, you will.  It may take it a little while to take hold.  You’ll be feeling very happy and quite relaxed soon enough.  Now just lie back down.  All right?”

“Can I keep one light on?” Belle asked as they begin to back out of the room.

“Of course.  Just relax here for a while.”

As they prepared to leave, the Countess noticed the General on the floor.  “Oh, good grief.  Dr. Whale.  Quick, over here.”

They helped the General sit up and he cleared his throat and shook his head.  “Oh, my.  Oh, I’m all right.  Perfectly all right.”  With help, he managed to stand.  “Goodnight ma’am,” he bowed and left.

Dr. Whale also bowed, “Goodnight Princess.”

“Goodnight Doctor,” Belle told them, watching them. The Countess turned off the light as she left, leaving Belle in the dark. 

Now alone, Belle looked around the room.  It’s a posh hotel room but, other than the luxuriousness of the sheets and the heaviness of the furniture, pretty much like any other hotel room.  As she lay on the bed, she heard the music again.  She got out of the bed and went over to the door to the balcony and looked out. 

Across the street, she could see a bandstand and people dancing.  She opened the door and went out onto the balcony.  There was a gentle breeze blowing onto her as she stood on the balcony.  The night was cool, but not too cold. 

Belle looked back at the room door, then returned to the room.  She then went over to her closet to rummage through her clothes.  She soon enough found the little denim skirt and the cute top she’d gotten at Target and slipped them on.  She looked at herself in the mirror and grabbed a pair of scissors from the Duchess’s embroidery basket and ruthlessly cut her hair, reducing her long tresses to an uneven two inches or so all over.  She ran her fingers through it and ruffled it up, the natural curliness taking hold.  She then peeked out the door of her room.  There was a guard at the end of the hallway sitting in front of the elevator.  He had half-way nodded off.   Belle returned to her room and went out onto the balcony.  She was on the second floor.  There were guards and police watching the street near her room.  She waited for them to make a circuit.  They seem distracted by the dancers across the street.  Taking a deep breath, she went over the railing and lowering herself so that she was just hanging on to the bottom of the railing, she dropped onto some bushes.  She froze, hoping the noise hadn’t attracted any attention and remained crouched down for a while looking around. 

She had not attracted any attention.  

She took a deep breath and, acting like she was just any other local, walked up the street and then crossed it, heading across the street over to the field of music and dancers. 

 **Poker Night**     

“So how long were you locked up?  I’m betting ten.”

“Ninety excruciatingly long days. Ten it is.  Dealer asks, how many?” 

“Damn.  Three cards. Was it rough?”  It was a tall lanky young man talking.

“I’ll take one,” another player spoke up.  He was a short man with a bald head and sleepy eyes.

“One,” said a fourth player with dark hair and a red nose.

The Dealer answered the question. “I have a new definition of pain. I would have had to rally to die those first couple of days.” After checking his hand, the dealer, an older man with a handsome, expressive face, spoke, “Two for papa.”

“Clean now?” the lanky young man followed-up.

“I’m betting another ten,” said the bald man.

“I’m in,” said the dealer and he dropped another ten into the pot. “Totally clean. No drugs, no booze, no nicotine. Hell, I don’t even play the lotto cards. The occasional friendly poker game and caffeine are as extreme as I get nowadays.”

“I’m out,” said the dark-haired man.

The young man added a ten and then dropped a twenty into the pot.  “I’m impressed. Good job, man.”

The dealer and the bald man each added a twenty into the pool.

The bald man showed his cards, “Two pairs.”

The dealer laid his down, “Well, all I got are three shy little sevens.” And he began to reach for the pot.

But, the tall young man then laid down his cards, “A nervous straight.”  And he reached over to pull in the pot.  “Very nice gentlemen. I’ll be able to buy breakfast in this expensive joint tomorrow.  But now I regret that I’ve got to go before you lot end up buying me lunch too.  I think we’ve all got an early date with her Royal Highness who will graciously pose for some pictures and repeat some crap from a script.”

“Early?” said the dealer.  “Jefferson, my invite says it will be nine a.m.”

“That’s early for me, Gold,” said Jefferson. 

“I’m sure it is.  Anyway, although I’ve got the company Visa, I’ve only got a couple of hundred in cash to my name to make it to next payday, so none of you are getting any more of me,” said Gold, standing to go and grabbing a cane to help him walk.  “I’ll see you,” he said to Jefferson, “at little Princess Izzy’s party in the morning.  Stay sober everyone.” 

He left the poker game and limped along the street.  He headed down Biltmore Avenue to a cheaper hotel than the one the Princess was staying in – his employer might have been willing to put him up in the pricey place but there simply hadn’t been any available rooms.  He walked through the field where the bandstand was and saw a few of the celebrants still lingering on.  He walked by a bench and was momentarily distracted by a young woman laid out on it.  As he walked by, he heard her.

“Soooooo haaaappy.”

He stopped and turned around to check on her. “Hey, dearie. You all right?”

“Mmmmmmmm,” she murmured and shifted, starting to slip off the bench.

He caught her and sat her back up. She was boneless and floppy. 

“Thank you. Very much. Delighted,” she said in clipped tones.

“Wake up, dearie,” he brushed her hair away from her face.

“No . . . thank you.” She offered him her hand. “Charmed.”

Gold, nearly laughing, shook his head, “Yeah, I’m charmed too.”

“You may . . .  sit down,” she told him. 

“I think you need to sit up. You’re much too young to get picked up by the police.”

“The police!” she seemed alarmed.

“Yes dearie, the police,” he told her.

“At four forty-five I will review the police and then back to change . . .”  she nearly fell over again.

Gold pulled her back upright again. “You know, people who can’t handle liquor shouldn’t drink it.”

“I didn’t have any liquor. ‘I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead; I lift my lids and all is born again.’ Do you know that poem?”

“Sylvia Plath. ‘I think I made you up inside my head.’  Well, you’re well-read, well-dressed and you’re sleeping on a public bench. Would you care to make a statement?” He was puzzling over what to do with the girl.

“What the world needs is a return to sweetness and decency in the souls of its young men and . . .” her head dropped and she leaned into his shoulder.

She had dozed off again.

“Oh, come on, sweetheart,” he told her, making a decision.


	2. Sweetness and Decency

“Come on, sweetheart,” he made a decision and pulled the dozing young woman into an upright position. “We’ll see about getting you a room at the motel so you can sleep it off. Get up,” he pulled her to her feet and began to drag her along.

“Sooooo haaappy,” she muttered as she followed along, leaning heavily into him.

“You got any money?” he asked her.

“Never carry money,” she told him.

“Bad habit. How ‘bout plastic?”

“Never carry plastic,” she told him.

“Very bad habit. Where do you live?”

“The big yellow house,” she told him.

“Oh, come on, dearie. You’re not that drunk.”

“Not drunk at all. Just veerrry haaappy.” She giggled.

“Oh, damn it, girl, don’t fall asleep again. I don’t think I can manage you and my bum knee.”  

He managed to drag her along the three blocks back to his second-rate motel and got her into the lobby. “Hey, Marco. You got a room for the night?” He addressed the familiar clerk at the night desk.

“Gold! You’ve got to be kidding. We’re totally booked up with this Princess thing going on.”

Gold sighed. “All right,” he said resignedly. He retrieved the woman who’d nodded off in the chair where he’d left her. “Come along, girlie.” She opened her eyes wide for a moment and then managed to get up and follow him. He got back to his room and pulled out the card to open the door. The girl leaned against him, her head on his shoulder.

“Mmmmm,” she murmured. “You smell nice.” And she buried her nose in between his shoulder blades.

“Right,” he answered, shaking his head, unable to disengage. She was snuggling against him. He managed to get the door open and pulled her inside. 

His hotel room smelled like air conditioner drip. It was furnished with a complete lack of enthusiasm, containing one full-sized bed, two hard chairs, a short mud-colored sofa, a small table, two low chests of drawers, a mini-fridge and a television set. The girl stood by his bed.

“We need to have an understanding,” he began.

“What the world needs now . . . is a return to sweetness and decency. Youth . . . youth must lead the waaaaay . . .” the girl trailed off. “Oh, I’m terribly sorry to mention it, but I’m very dizzy,” she told him, wavering on her feet. “May I sleep here?” she waved her hand, motioning toward the bed.

He guided her over to the sofa, ” _You_ may sleep on the sofa.” 

“May I have the green silk nightgown with little rosebuds on it?” she asked him.

Gold snorted and scratched his head. He reached into the closet and pulled down one of his shirts. “’Fraid you’ll have to settle for this.”

“A man’s shirt?!” she seemed delighted.

“Sorry dearie, but I haven’t worn a silk nightgown in years.”

The girl wobbled on her feet. “Will you help me get undressed?”

“No way in hell,” he told her. “Drunk you might be, but you should still be able to handle undressing yourself.” 

The girl fumbled with her buttons of her little blouse and unfastened her skirt. Gold, seeing that she was about to strip off, turned his back to her. He went over to the fridge and pulled out a bottled water and took a swig. “Let me know when you’ve finished changing,” he told her. 

He could hear the girl moving around. “This is very unusual. I’ve never been alone with a man before, even with my clothing on. With my clothing off, it’s most unusual.” She giggled, “I don’t seem to mind.  Do you?”

Gold cleared his throat. “Tell you what. I’m going to go out and get some coffee from the lobby.” He gingerly walked by her, keeping his head averted, but even so, he could see that she’d made some progress with changing her clothing. “Remember, you sleep on the sofa,” he reminded her.

“Do you know my favorite poem?” she drowsily asked him before he got out the door.

“You recited that one for me already.”

The girl spoke up anyway, “’Arethusa rose from her couch of snows in the Acroceraunian Mountains.’ That’s Keats.”

“Shelley,” said Gold without hesitating.

“Keats,” the girl repeated.

“Shelley,” Gold repeated. “I’ll be back in about ten minutes.” And he headed towards the door.

“Keats. You have my permission to withdraw,” the girl told him, speaking slowly, with some apparent effort.

Gold smiled, “Well, thank you very much. And it’s Shelley.” He went out the door and shut it behind himself.

“Keats,” said the girl to the back of the door.

**At the Grand Hotel**

The Ambassador, the Countess, the Doctor and the General were all in Princess Isabella’s room. One of the guards was making a report.

“Well?” the Ambassador quizzed him. The alarm had been raised by Doctor Whale who’d come by the room to check on his patient an hour after he’d administered the lorazepam. He’d found her missing, the door to the balcony opened and had immediately alerted security.

“No trace, Your Excellency,” the guard replied.

“Have you searched the area around the hotel? The garage, the streets.”

“She was interested in those dancers,” the Countess reminded them.

“We’ve searched the building, the garage, the surrounding streets and the dance festival that is going on across the street.  No sign of her.”

“Well,” the Ambassador began. “I assume I do not have to remind you to speak of this to no one. The Princess is the direct heir to the throne. This is a top-secret crisis.”

“Of course, sir,” the guard told them. “Do you want us to alert the American security contingency?”

“Not just yet,” said the General. “Keep me posted as you continue searching.”

The officer left and the Ambassador turned to the other two. “We must notify His Majesty that his daughter is missing.”

“Of course. Do you need me to make the phone call?” the Countess offered.

**Back with the Reporter**   

Gold carried the worm-flavored coffee he’d gotten from the lobby vending machine and returned to his room. He couldn’t help but think that the girl swallowed somebody’s Rohypnol and somehow had gotten away from her would-be assailant. She didn’t seem drunk, but she sure as hell wasn’t coherent. He opened the door and, sure enough, first thing, he noticed the girl had fallen asleep in his bed. He sighed and gulped down his coffee. He went into the small bathroom and grabbed a shower for himself and redressed in sleep pants and a tee-shirt. He debated his next move but opted to lie down next to her on the bed with the covers between them. As he lay on the bed, he heard her, “Soooo haaappy. Thank you.”

“The pleasure is mine, lass,” he told her and closed his eyes.

**The Following Morning**

“Goood Mooorning Ammmerricaa!” It was the pretty blonde again. “Your style reporter, Ashley de la Feu, bringing you the latest and greatest news.  So, we are all just _devastated_ to hear about the illness of Princess Isabella.”

“This is very abrupt, isn’t it?” her older co-host asked.

“Yes, Mallie it is. Princess Isabella has been the picture of health and vitality this entire tour. Whether she’s just caught an illness or the stress of the tour has finally caught up with her. . .  well, we just don’t know. Her Embassy spokesman shared this morning that she is bedridden, but they are hopeful that this will be a short illness and the Princess will get back to the tour soon enough. I know all of us will keep her in our thoughts.” And Ashley smiled brightly at the camera.

**Back with the Reporter**

The clock read nine-thirty. Gold struggled to wake up. He opened his eyes against the light streaming in the one window of the room and then he leaned over to look at the time. 

“Aw fuck!” he said sitting up. “The goddamn Princess interview!” _He must have slept through his alarm – or, more likely, forgotten to set it._

The girl, hearing his outburst, made annoyed noises and buried herself back into her pillows.

He glared at her, “Oh shut up,” he told her. He jumped up, grabbed his cane and pulled the window curtain back to look outside.

Yeah, it was bright sun-shiny out in the world.

He went over to the closet to pull out some clean clothes and quickly dressed. He went downstairs to the lobby, got another cup of the vending machine coffee and made his call.

**Conversation with The Boss**

The main office was in Atlanta. Inside the downtown facility, a sharply-dressed woman sat in her black and chrome office. At the moment, she was running down news copy noting Princess Isabella’s illness. Her administrative assistant, a perky red-head, brought her a stack of folders. 

“Heard from anybody yet?” the assistant asked.

The sharply-dressed woman shook her head. “Not a word. I’m assuming they all showed up at the hotel and learned about the illness. Surprised we didn’t get an earlier call about all this. Hell, I’m surprised we didn’t get _any_ calls about her illness.”

“Reckon Mr. Gold is up there getting the total skinny on what’s wrong – like he’s got one of her people in an elevator and bleeding the entire story out of them?” the assistant asked, her eyes lighting up.

The woman shook her head again. “No idea, but I hope that’s what’s going on. If anyone can get the real scoop on what’s happening, it would be our boy Gold.” Her phone rang. She glanced at the number. “Ah, speaking of Gold.” She put the call on speaker.

“Gold. How are you doing?” she asked her best but, at the moment, most unstable, reporter. _She was expecting to hear the whole sordid story – was the princess really sick?_

“Fine. And you?”

“Fine,” the woman answered. “I thought I’d’ve heard from you earlier. What’s going on up there?” The woman noticed that her assistant was hanging around to hear the ace reporter’s scoop.

“Not a whole lot. Just finished up with the Princess interview.”

The woman sat back, confused, “Really?” She glanced back over the copy coming over several computers detailing the Princess’s illness and indisposition. “And how did that go?”

_What was he trying to pull?_

“Well, pretty routine.”

“She answered all the questions on the list?” the woman asked him.

“Of course, she did. Very obliging.”

The woman looked over her desk and picked up her own list of questions. “Let’s see. How did Her Highness feel about the future of the European Union?”

On his end, Gold yawned, “She said as long as the different countries can continue to respect the history and cultural identity of the other countries, she thought it would continue.”

“Did she now?” the woman answered him. “Say anything else on it?”

“Yeah,” Gold continued. “She thought that there’d . . .  uh . . . be . . . uh . . . two effects.”

“Two?”

“Yes. A direct and an indirect.”

“Interesting,” the woman commented.

“Of course, she thought that the indirect would not be as . . . direct . . .  as the  . . .  direct. That is, not right away. Later on, of course, well, that would have to be seen.”

The woman smiled. “Remarkable. These royal brats. Sometimes they have a lot more on the ball than we might suspect.” The woman looked back down at her paper. “How did she feel about the future friendship of nations?”

“Youth,” Gold responded.

“Go on,” the woman encouraged him.

“Yes. She felt that . . . eh . . . the youth of the world . . . they must . . . uhm . . . lead the way to a return to sweetness and decency to become a better . . . world.”

The woman sat back in her chair. “Nice.” She turned away from her list for a moment. “Oh, by the way, what was she wearing?”

“You mean like, what did she have on?” Gold asked her, wincing on the other end of the line.

“That’s what that usually means,” the woman told him. “What did she have on?”

“It was . . .  “

“She usually wears blue,” the woman shared.

“Yeah, it was a kinda blue,” Gold agreed immediately, grasping at the straw his boss had thrown in his path.

“Oh, I wonder if it was the dress she wore in Colorado. Did it have a little gold collar?”

“I think so. I’m not very good at describing women’s clothing. But . . . yeah . . . that sounds right.”

“Well, Gold. I think you described it very well.” The woman picked up the receiver and took the phone off speaker. She glared at her assistant who had been hanging on, listening to every word. The woman behind the desk motioned for her assistant to return to her own desk. She continued talking with Gold, “Especially considering that Her Highness was taken violently ill at three this morning, was put to bed with a high fever and has had all her appointments for today canceled!”

There was a long pause before Gold responded. “All of them?” he asked, not wanting to hear the answer.

”All of them,” the woman repeated herself. “Gold, I’m surprised at you. You trained me. The first thing you bitch-slapped into me as a tyro was that sources are sacred. This isn’t like you --  making up crap.”

“Well shit, Gina! You knew I didn’t want this POS fluff assignment when you crammed it down my throat!” Gold protested the situation he felt he’d been forced into by his boss, Regina Mills, the head of news for ATNN. He’d mentored her many years ago and had always viewed his relationship with her more like a father/daughter one. She often acted the loyal daughter, going to bat for him, unafraid to berate him when he acted stupidly, and often letting him know how much she appreciated him. But sometimes, like recently – since The Incident – she’d been a bitch, as far as he was concerned – another person determined to protect him and coddle him. 

“But you aren’t well enough for me to put you back on the front lines.   The doctors at the Center were quite clear. Gold,” the woman shifted in her chair. “You are the best reporter on staff, one of the best anywhere.  Two Pulitzers, three Murrow Awards, I could go on. You don’t need me to tell you that you’re great. But right now . . .”

“Yeah, I’m fragile and delicate. That’s bullshit, Regina. I’m clean. I’m sober.  I‘m healed up, body and soul. I’m ready to go back into the trenches.”

“Gold, I’m just following your doctors’ recommendations. They want you back at work but only doing light assignments. I thought reporting on Princess Isabella would be just the ticket. Since Zoso got sick, ATNN hasn’t had anyone on the job there.”

“Come on, Gina,” Gold protested, calling her by the pet name he’d given her when she’d first started on the job working under his mentorship. “What the hell do I know about interviewing some pampered bint princess? Give me somebody’s freedom fighter, terrorist, accused serial killer, crooked politician, rogue government leader, smuggler, pirate --  fuck yeah, hold my beer, I got this! The meaner, the better. Shit, I don’t even know what she looks like.”

“Here,” Regina turned her attention to her computer and forwarded several pictures to his secure account.

Gold accessed them and looked them over. “Wait a minute,” he was looking at the same woman, _sans_ regal gown, necklace, and tiara, without the long hair, who was sleeping in his bed at the moment. “Wait a minute. That’s the princess?” he asked.

“Yes. It’s not some movie celebrity, reality star or pop princess. She’s a _real_ princess. She looks like this. Take a good look, Gold. Maybe, if, when, she recovers, you might be interviewing her for real some day.”

“Listen, Gina.” He was rapidly thinking this over and asked slowly. “How much would a real, one-on-one interview with this little chit be worth?”

“By ‘little chit’ are you referring to Her Royal Highness?” Regina asked him.

“I’m not referring to some movie celebrity, reality star or pop princess,” he used her words.

“Why would you even ask? Her people don’t let anyone get close to her. She’s better protected than the Pope.”

“Hey, remember me? I’ve interviewed the Pope. Nothing to it. But back to this princess. If I could get this kind of interview, would you let me back on the circuit again? Iraq, Afghanistan, North Korea, D.C. wherever it’s hottest?”

“If you could get a for real and for true, person to person, deepest feelings, unrealized dreams, hopes, and desires, of this young woman.  . . .  Yeah, you could write your ticket.”

“The Private and Secret Longings of a Princess. Her innermost thoughts as revealed to your own correspondent in a private, personal, exclusive interview.”

“With pictures?” Regina asked.

“With pictures,” he confirmed.

“Video?”

“Sure,” he answered.

“Maybe a love angle?” Regina asked him.

“If there is one . . .  yeah, I’ll do a love angle.”

“You get that and you get your own weekly half-hour slot on the network,” Regina told him.

“Lovely, my dear,” Gold seemed very satisfied.

“But wait,” Regina told him and he froze. “If you don’t get this intense, personal interview, then for the next six months, your ass is mine.”

“Flattered. I never thought you had those feelings about me, dearie,” he began.

“Not like that. Eeuu.” Regina took a moment to gag before responding, “You will go where I tell you to, report on who and what I tell you to and you will do your best damn job of it. I don’t care if it’s the god damned Westminster Dog Show. Agreed?”

Gold hesitated half a moment. “Agreed.” He hung up the phone.

And, smiling, Gold stepped back into his hotel room. He entered softly and saw that the Princess was still asleep. He made a couple of passes on his phone, calling up a picture of her and comparing the two. No question. He then picked up a corner of the sheet and tickled the back of her hand with it. He leaned in close to her.

“Your Highness?” he said very softly.

“Mmmmm mmmmmm,” was all she said.

“Your Royal Highness?” he repeated.

“Yes. . . yes, what is it?” she sighed.

Gold smiled. “You, my dear, will be my ticket back to The Big Show.” He stroked her hair back.

“Dr. Whale?” she said sleepily.

Gold quickly decided to play along – _no telling what he might learn,_ “Yes dearie. You’re fine now. Much better. Is there anything you want?”

The Princess sighed, “Oh yes, so many things.”

Gold leaned in, “Yes dearie. Well, tell the good doctor everything.”

Without opening her eyes, Belle began, “I dreamt and I dreamt. . . “

He waited a moment. “And what did you dream?”

“I dreamt I was asleep on a bench and a man came along and picked me up.”

“Is that right?”

“But he was so mean to me.”

“He was?” Gold pulled away.

Belle stirred and turned onto her back putting her arm over her eyes. “But he smelled good and took care of me.” She lowered her arm and blinked her eyes. She looked at the ceiling. It looked different from what she remembered. _Not her hotel room._ She looked around the room and saw the man sitting next to her.

“Good morning,” Gold greeted her.

“Where’s Doctor Whale?” The young woman was most alarmed and pulled the sheet up around her neck.

Gold shrugged, “I’m afraid I don’t know anybody by that name.”

“Wasn’t I just talking to him?”

Gold looked around the room, “Don’t see how that’s possible.”

Belle was suddenly alarmed, touching her short hair, “Have I been in an accident?”

“Not that I know,” Gold reassured her.

“Then it’s safe for me to sit up?”

“I believe so.”

Belle gingerly raised herself. She kept an eye on Gold, clearly not trusting him. 

“Thank you,” she said in her clipped tones. She looked down at the shirt she was wearing, “Is this yours?”

“Yes. You seemed quite happy to change into it last night.”

Belle’s eyes widened.

Gold decided to reassure her. “I found you on a city bench. You were acting drunk . . . or drugged. I didn’t want to leave you outside for the night. I was afraid you’d be arrested. I tried to get you a hotel room, but they were all full up because there’s some Princess visiting the town. So. . . I brought you here to my hotel room. You were pretty out of it.”

“Have I been here all night?” she asked him.

“Yes.”

“With you?”

“Yes.”

Belle blinked. “So, I spent the night here . . .  with you?”

Gold hurried to reassure her, “I don’t know if I’d use those exact words, but . . . er. . . from a certain angle . . . yes.”

Belle thought about it but seemed reassured that he was her rescuer, not a predator and she gave him a brilliant smile. She held out her hand to him, “How do you do?”

Gold took her hand and shook it. “Fine. And how do you do?”

“Fine. And you are?”

“Gold. My friends just call me Gold.”

“Mr. Gold. Delighted.”

“I’m quite delighted to meet you.”

Belle gestured to a chair nearby. “You may sit down.”

Gold sat down on the bottom of the bed instead. “Well, thank you, very much. And what is your name?” He was most curious as to how she would answer this.

Belle considered. She decided to use her family name. “Belle. I’m Belle.”

“Well, thank you, Belle. Would you like a cup of truly heinous coffee?”

“Coffee? What time is it?”

Gold looked at his watch. “Almost ten o’clock.”

Belle panicked. “Ten o’clock?!” She jumped out of the bed and headed towards the door. “I must get dressed and go!” She then remembered that all she was wearing was one of his shirts, leaving her legs bare. She grabbed the sheet to wrap it around herself.

“Why?  What’s your hurry?  There’s lots of time.” He had caught the quickest glimpse of toned legs, short, but well proportioned. _Nice._

“Oh no, there isn’t. And I’ve . . . I’ve been quite enough trouble to you as it is.”

Gold graced her with his most charming smile, “Trouble? No, you’re not what I’d call trouble.”


	3. Her One and Only Chance

“No, you’re not what I’d call trouble,” Gold told her gently.

Belle was flattered, “I’m not?”

“Why don’t you grab a shower?” he suggested. “You were too out of it last night to do anything but change out of your clothes.”

Belle nodded and, finding her clothes in a neat pile on one of the chairs, she hesitantly picked them up and made her way to the bathroom. 

“I’m going to step out and take care of a couple of things. Give you some privacy,” he told her and as she shut the bathroom door, he left the room. He made a phone call from the hallway.

“Jefferson.”

“What now? I’m kinda busy.”

“This is more important,” Gold told him. “Send whoever you’re with back to his or her boy/girlfriend or husband/wife and get over to my hotel room. And, this is really important, bring that little pen camera thing you have – the one that takes up to an hour of video.”

“Hey, I’m really busy,” Jefferson protested.

“I’ve got something front page here. I can’t tell you on the phone, but it’s a big story.”

“You can’t have found a big story here in Asheville, Gold. You’re having some kind of a flashback.”

“No, I’m not. Just get over here. And bring me that camera.” Then he hung up. 

He returned to the apartment. At first, he didn’t see the Princess but then found that she was standing outside on his little balcony. She had finished with her shower and redressed, fluffing her unruly hair, now all curly, with a towel. 

“Well, there you are,” he joined her on the balcony.

“I was looking at the cars going up and down the road. And all the houses tucked away on the hillside. It must be fun to live in a city like this.” She sounded so wistful.

“It has its moments,” Gold told her. “I’ve actually got a little place up in the mountains, great view. Don’t get up there nearly enough.”

Belle looked things over a moment longer, then sighed. “I really must be going.”

“Really?” he asked her. “It’s going to be a beautiful day. There’s a lot of fun to be had out there.” He spoke slowly, seductively.

“I just waited around to say thank you and goodbye.”

“Goodbye? But we’ve only just met. How about some breakfast . . .  or lunch?”

“I’m so sorry. I really haven’t time,” she was gracious and smiling. 

“Pretty important date for you to run off without eating.” _Lordy, but he was really trying to turn on the charm._

“It is,” she confirmed. And she turned to go.

_Crap, he thought.  He didn’t want her slipping through his fingers like this._ “Let me give you a lift. Where are you going?”

“Oh, I think I’ll find the place. Thank you for letting me sleep in your bed.”

“Oh, that’s all right. Think nothing of it.”

 Belle got to the door, then she stopped, hesitating, “I . . . I just realized . . .  I don’t know where my hotel is.  I think I may need that ride.”

“You might,” he agreed kindly. “Oh, you didn’t have any money last night either. Do you need any?” he asked her.

Belle hesitated again, “I . . .  I don’t know.”

“Would a hundred dollars carry you?” Gold asked.

“Uh. . . I don’t know. I guess. Can you spare all that?”

“I think so. I’m a good judge of character and I believe you’re good for it.”

“Absolutely,” she assured him.

“Where do you need a ride to?”

Belle looked toward town. She stood a long moment, considering. _This might be her one and only chance._

_Her one and only chance, ever._

_In her entire life, her one and only chance._

She took a deep breath making her decision. “How about downtown Asheville?” she asked brightly.

_Yes!!_ “Sure. Do you want to stop and get a little late breakfast?”

“Oh, please.” Then she asked hesitantly, “Could we . . . could we eat at a Waffle House?” She’d seen the signs all over the place since traveling in the South. She’d looked them up and they sounded just wonderful. 

Gold couldn’t stop himself from smiling. “Absolutely. I’ll treat.”

“Oh, I guess that would be all right,” and she gave him a brilliant smile.

**The Waffle House**  

The morning air was a little on the cool side and Belle retained the shirt she had slept in the night before as a lightweight jacket, wearing it over her little skirt and top ensemble. Gold took her down the stairs and steered her towards his car. The nearest Waffle House was just down the road and they were able to go in and get a seat at one of the booths right away. Gold quickly texted Jefferson to let him know his current whereabouts.

The waitress came right over and took their drink orders. Belle took the lead from Gold who ordered coffee. 

“I’ll have coffee also, please.”  She looked over the plastic protected menu with glee.  “This sounds just right – I want the Two Egg Breakfast, please.”

“How do you want your eggs, honey?”

“Umm. . . “ she looked at Gold, panicked.

“Scrambled?” he suggested and Belle nodded.

“You want sausage, bacon or ham?”

“Umm . . .” so many choices.

“Bacon?” Gold suggested again and Belle nodded.

“Grits, hash browns or tomato?”

“Oh, I’ve never had grits or hash browns.”

“Get both,” Gold suggested.

“Can I do that?”

“Sure, honey I’ll get you the grits as a side. It’s cheaper that way.” The waitress then asked. “Now, how do you want them hash browns?”

Belle glanced at the menu. Now she was really overwhelmed. She considered her options: scattered, smothered, covered, chunked, diced, peppered, capped, topped or country.

Gold smiled sympathetically. “They’re good with onions or mushrooms,” he offered.  “Smothered or capped,” he added the Waffle House lingo.

She shook her head. “Thank you, but,” she made up her mind. “I’ll have them with tomatoes and chili.  Hash browns . . . diced and topped, oh, and peppered. I’ll get some peppers with them too,” she ordered deciphering the menu options.

“You know them peppers are hot?” the waitress asked her.

“Jalapenos. I can manage,” she assured the waitress.

“Why not get onions and cheese with the chili also?” he asked her. “They all go together.”

“That would work?” she asked.

“Hash browns, scattered, smothered, covered, diced, topped and peppered,” Gold ordered on her behalf and Belle nodded at the waitress in agreement who next took Gold’s order for coffee and dry toast.

Belle then leaned over to whisper to Gold, “I’ve never had chili before. It sounds delicious.”

“It will be an experience, I’m sure,” he told her, leaning back and watching her. Her joy in the simple act of ordering breakfast was contagious.  He fidgeted with his cell phone and took several snap shots.

When the food came, Belle dug in. “This is wonderful,” she told the waitress who had stopped by to refill Gold’s coffee. 

“You look like somebody, darlin’,” the waitress told her.

Belle managed to keep her face impassive. “Really?”

“Yeah, but I’m not sure who it is.” The waitress shook her head.  Gold managed a couple more pictures. _This was priceless – the princess at the diner, eating chili on her hash browns._

He saw Jefferson pull in and come into the small restaurant. As par, Jefferson was dressed in tight fitting jeans and a snug Under Armour tee-shirt all worn under a vintage Dolce and Gabbana jacket.  “Gold!” he called to the man as he came in.

“Jefferson,” Gold waved him over. “Belle, dearie, I want you to meet one of my oldest friends, Jefferson. He’s an artist, a photographer. Jefferson, this is my new friend, Belle. She fell asleep on a street bench last night and I offered her shelter. She needed a lift to downtown and I’ve been happy to oblige.”

Belle held her hand out to Jefferson, “Pleasure,” she said brightly.

“Ma’am,” Jefferson’s eyes lit up as he looked over the dainty beauty, and true to his flamboyant nature, he bowed and kissed the back of her hand.  He sat down next to her, scooting her over on the booth seat.  “Anyone ever tell you that you look like . . .” Gold kicked him sharply under the table and caught his eye. Jefferson got the message, “like . . . uh . . .” he fumbled for words.

“An artist’s model,” Gold finished for him.

“Yeah,” Jefferson picked up on the ruse. “An artist’s model?”

Belle blushed. “You are too kind, sir.”

The waitress came back over and Jefferson flirted with the waitress and then ordered coffee with the Steak and Egg breakfast. He upped the hash browns that came with the meal to a triple order, scattered and peppered. “Put it on his tab,” he told the waitress nodding at Gold. 

“First time in Asheville?” Jefferson then asked Belle, sitting back and smiling at her.

“I’ve been here a few days. First time I haven’t had something scheduled,” she answered him

“Do you have that pen I lent you?” Gold interrupted a bit sourly. Belle seemed amused by the handsome photographer and was attending to his every word. 

“I do,” Jefferson reached in his jacket pocket and handed it over.

“My favorite pen,” Gold explained to Belle.

Jefferson chatted easily with the young woman. “You’ll need to stick with Gold here if you want to find the best places downtown. You wouldn’t think it, but he’s a guy who knows how to have fun.”

“Why wouldn’t I think it?” Belle asked guilelessly.

“Well, look at him. A more sour, depressed, self-loathing character you’ll never meet.”

“Oh, I hadn’t noticed. I thought Mr. Gold had been . . . very . . . pleasant,” she replied looking over at him.

_Damn, Gold thought.  The little chit had touched a chord.  He thought he might actually be blushing._

Despite getting his breakfast last, Jefferson was soon finished, eating much faster than the measured pace of the princess and the reluctant nibbling of the reporter.

“This was great. Thanks for breakfast,” Jefferson said getting up. “It was good running into you,” he nodded at Gold, “and very, very nice to meet you,” he told Belle before leaving out. 

“What an unusual man,” Belle remarked. “He has such a refreshing way of looking at things and such a distinctive dress style.”

“He’s crazy as a loon,” Gold told her. “But. . .  he’s a good friend.”

Gold paid the bill with the company credit card. As they got back into his car, he shared, “Listen, my morning just opened up. I’d had an appointment but it was canceled. Can I show you around town?”

Belle bit her lip. “I guess that would be all right.”

**The American Liaison**

Lieutenant Emma Swan was the local American liaison in charge of Princess Isabelle’s security. They had pulled her in at ten thirty to confess that their Princess had wandered off.

Emma sighed and stopped herself from rolling her eyes. “No sense that she was abducted, right?” she asked, noting the locks of severed hair. 

“None. She was having trouble sleeping and was given a couple of milligrams of Lorazepam. She shouldn’t have been able to get very far.”

Emma had looked over the hotel room. She had urged the Princess be put up in a less ostentatious setting, with easier to guard entrances and exits . . .  and no balcony. She went out on the balcony and looked down. _Yeah, a healthy girl, even doped-up, could have easily made the drop to the ground from here._

“Had she talked about anywhere she might have wanted to go?” Emma was interviewing General Rêveur, Duchess Cora and Doctor Whale.

“No,” Rêveur and Whale answered.

“Yes,” said Cora. All eyes turned to the Countess. “She had heard the music across the street and had gone to look out the window at the revelers.”

Emma looked over at the park and considered.

“We think she wandered off in a stupor, perhaps went out a window.  But where did she go from there?” Dr. Whale shook his head. “With the dosage I gave her, she would have been asleep on her feet.”

Emma didn’t say, but she thought it likely the Princess had connected with one of the partygoers, who would have thought she was drugged up or drunk and could have taken her in to take care of her. _But why hadn’t she called or come back by now?_

“And this was all that was going on today?” She held up a copy of the day’s schedule, which she thought was ridiculously over-packed. “Anything she didn’t want to do?”

“She’d gotten upset when I mentioned the International Women’s Rights Group this evening,” Cora told her.

Emma glanced over the schedule. She didn’t know the Princess but she did know young women. “Since you people haven’t received any ransom demands, my guess is she’s gone for a walk-about.”

“A what?” Cora asked.

“She’s playing hooky,” Emma told them.

They all continued to look confused.

“She’s taking a day off,” Emma spoke slowly and loudly, hoping it would aid in their understanding. “My guess is she made a connection with one of the party goers and she’s going to head for downtown Asheville,” Emma explained.

“That doesn’t sound like the Princess at all. She’s a very responsible and mature young woman,” Cora told her.

“She’s twenty-three, right?” Emma asked.

“Yes,” Cora answered.

“Well, you people look where you think she might be and I’ll look where she’s really gone,” Emma told them and headed out, making several calls. 

**Downtown**

At Belle’s request, he’d stopped on the way into town at a HairCuts Eight in one of the strip malls they passed. Miss Belle had wanted to get her hair shaped up a bit _something to repair the jagged cut she’d given herself_. She sat down in front of a hairdresser with rainbow hair and had given the young woman free reign. She ended up with an asymmetrical cut, very different from her princess hair. She’d added a small hairpiece – a green strip extension. She paid for the new haircut out of the money Gold had lent her.   

Once downtown, they had in the Rankin Street garage.  The man seemed more than content to follow her and allowed her to take the lead. Belle had gone out and immediately found Topp’s Shoes. She looked at a couple of pairs but quickly saw the price tags exceeded the remains of the hundred dollars she’d been loaned. So next, she headed down Lexington and found the Indian River Trading Company.

She ducked in and walked around looking at the rows and rows of beads.  “Oh, I have so many ideas about making some earrings with these.”

“Is that a hobby of yours?” Gold asked her. _He’d figured princesses would be more into horses and dogs . . . and maybe yachting and watching lithe young men play polo._

“Not really. I don’t have much time for hobbies,” she confessed.

“Oh?” He asked innocently enough, “What is it you do?”

She licked her lips. “Well, I . . .  my family has a business and I help them.  It’s very time-consuming.” She managed a sideways glance at the man.  He was being terribly nice.

He’d nodded after she said she worked at her family’s business. _She was noticing his soft, whiskey-colored eyes. She guessed his age was closer to her father’s than to hers but she was still finding him attractive. She wondered if he was some sort of artist – there were so many artist types in this town._

One of the salesgirls began talking with her. “You ever make earrings before?”

“I’ve never made any jewelry before.” 

“We have an 11:30 class. You want to join it”

Belle almost agreed, but then asked, “How much?” The forty-dollar price tag, which included supplies, gave her pause. Gold spoke up. “I’ll treat, Belle.” He might not have a lot of cash on hand, but he did have the company credit card. 

Belle made a point of remembering how much the class cost him. _She had every intention of reimbursing him for everything once she returned._

Belle spent the next hour making herself some dangling blue feather earrings. She put them on to wear outside of the store. Gold managed some more pictures. They continued on down the street and next stepped into a costume shop and then several vintage clothing stores on Lexington. He encouraged her to try on the odd array of garments she’d fancied and was able to make several short videos. There was a 30’s beaded dress, another dress made of upcycled crocheted doilies, and a tie-dyed t-shirt among the items Belle picked out. She would try them on and pose for him. He could tell she really liked some of the items she found, but she put them all back. 

“I’ll leave them for someone who will be able to wear them more often than I might be able to,” she told him sadly. They went on out.

“Why would you think you couldn’t wear any of those things?” he asked, secretly videoing her response.

“Oh, I . . . come from a rather conservative background and I just think that I couldn’t easily get away with wearing a dress made of doilies,” she told him easily. “I’m usually working and I have to wear clothes that are more  . . . work-appropriate.”

“Well, you looked very pretty in that doily outfit,” he told her, noting that the compliment seemed to please her.

_He was prepping copy in his mind – the royal princess, constrained by high fashion requirements while, all the while, nursing a boho streak._

“Oh,” Gold told her. “I know a shop up on Heywood that you might want to go into, Prêt á Porter. It’s run by a nationally known designer.”

Belle hesitated, “I think I might pass that one up. It sounds expensive.” _And she thought there might be a chance she’d be recognized there._

Gold nodded in agreement, not pressing her. As they walked up on Heywood they were passed by the Pubcycle. 

“Mr. Gold, whatever is that?” Belle asked her mouth gaping in wonderment at the odd vehicle, powered by multiple people, making its way through the streets.

“The Pubcycle. People get tickets and take it as a cycling tour of Asheville while they drink some of the beers of the area.”

Belle’s face had lit up. 

“I’ll see if I can get us tickets,” he told her and made some calls. 

**Spotted**

Emma Swan got a call from one of her men who thought he had spotted the Princess in downtown Asheville. Emma had been sitting in her office on Heywood Street and left it to begin walking the streets.  She had gotten a description of the older man who was accompanying the young woman they thought might be the princess. Emma vaulted over to their current location further up Heywood and quickly spotted the couple. 

The Princess did not seem unduly distressed, so Emma quickly concluded that she wasn’t under duress. She certainly didn’t look like she’d been kidnapped. 

No, she looked like she was having the time of her life. 

Emma looked closely at the man who was with her. Cheese and crackers, he looked familiar. She walked by the couple and heard a name.

“Mr. Gold, whatever is that?” the young woman had asked the man. Emma caught her looking at the Pubcycle. Emma also heard Gold’s response and made a quick call herself, directing the Pubcycle people to have seats for four reserved, two in the name of Gold who would be calling shortly and one for Emma Swan and friend.

She let the couple move on up the street, while she slipped into the chocolate shop.  Emma called fiancé. “Neal, is your dad in town?” she asked him while gnoshing on a cinnamon chocolate drop.

“Don’t know. Last I heard, ATNN had thrown him into deep re-hab for the opioid addiction. That was about three months ago, so he could be out by now.”

“Meet me on Woodfin for the Pubcycle tour at two thirty,” Emma told him.

“Say what?”

“You and I are going on a Pubcycle tour. Your dad will be on it,” Emma began filling him in.

“My dad on a beer cycle? That can’t be part of his rehab,” Neal didn’t like what he was hearing.

“Oh, he’s in so much deeper than that. He’s absconded with a royal princess and is taking her on a whirlwind tour of the town.”

There was no immediate response from Neal. Emma heard him sigh. “What can I say? Sounds like my dad. I’ll be there.”

**Lunch and the Afternoon**

Gold made his call and gave the Princess a thumbs up. “We’re on the two-thirty tour. We meet up with them on Woodfin. It’s in walking distance. We’ll need to get some lunch first. We should have time.”

Gold suggested Rosetta’s Kitchen. Belle was intrigued with the concept of a vegan restaurant. The offerings were exotic. After a much-animated debate, she selected the tempeh Rueben. Gold got the veggie burger but put an extra twenty when he paid the bill to go to the Everybody Eats fund. Belle was fascinated by the eclectic relaxed style of the restaurant as well as the truly artsy style of the other patrons. She clearly had fun with her food and Gold was able to snap another dozen pictures. 

_Again, more copy was coming to mind – the princess enjoying the local cuisine at a socially conscious restaurant._

_He was enjoying himself too. The princess was lively and clever and extremely nice and he found himself beginning to like her, really like her, like he hadn’t felt about anyone in a very long time._

_She also was very easy on the eyes._

They then walked up to Broadway (just up the hill) to Bruisin’ Ales. Belle had looked in amazement at the variety of beers. She’d had no idea which one to select so, after talking with the manager, they selected a mild hefeweizen, a wheat beer, for Belle. Since Gold was off alcohol, at least for awhile, they stopped in at a drug store and picked up a soft drink for him.

As they walked to Aloft to catch the pubcycle, Belle shared what an excellent time she was having and stopped a moment. Gold turned to her and was surprised when she put her hands on his arms.

“I . . . I wanted to thank you,” she began. “This is the best time I’ve ever had.”

“Why, thank you. I don’t know that I’ve ever given anybody their best time.”

“Well, you have now,” she told him shyly and stood on tiptoes to kiss him on the cheek.  Gold was surprised -- more like stunned.  _She had kissed him. He was dizzy, disoriented and confused._

_She had kissed him!_

_Good lord, how could he write this up?_

He was debating his next move, standing open-mouthed while Belle turned away to walk on toward the depot.  As he looked up he caught sight of his son waiting at the pickup point.

_What the hell was his son doing here in Asheville?!  He knew Neal was somewhere in the Southeast, but last he’d heard, he’d been in Charlotte._  

“Uh, Belle, I need to see someone,” Gold told her and went on ahead. _What was going on?  Normally, encountering his son would have immediately involved a hundred percent of his attention but this time, Gold was hesitating.  Instead, he’d had to stop himself from grabbing the princess to kiss her back._

_What was he thinking?!  This was a royal princess._

_And he’d just met her._

_He pulled his attention back to his son._

“Neal,” he approached the young man. 

Neal turned and his face lit up. “Dad! I hadn’t heard you were out. And you’re in Asheville!”

“Yeah, I . . . I didn’t realize you were here. Last I’d heard you were in Charlotte.”

“I’d texted you about the move, dad. And you did get back to me,” Neal spoke gently.  “But, you don’t remember any of that, do you?”

 


	4. Family Business

“You don’t remember any of that do you?” Neal asked his father gently.

Gold bit his lip. “No. If that was a couple of months ago, I was going through a bad time. I remember that you were texting me but I don’t remember anything you told me. You might have heard . . . “

“Yeah, I heard. You survived that attack, apparently, the only one in the party who did.  Some PTSD mixed with some self-medication?”

Gold nodded. “Mostly prescription stuff – pain pills. It got pretty serious there. ATNN paid for me to go through some heavy therapy and rehab.  I’m . . . mostly better. This is my first time out. I was going to call you but got caught up . . . uh . . . with some work.”

“I am curious,” Neal told him looking back at Belle. “Why are you here and who is this lovely creature you’re with?”

“Oh, let me introduce you,” Gold waved Belle over. “Belle, this is my son, Neal. I didn’t realize that he was even in town. Running into him is an amazing coincidence.”

“So nice to meet you,” Belle told him extending her hand.

“Neal, this is Belle. She’s . . . a friend. We’re just spending today together. I’m showing her around Asheville,” Gold continued the introduction.

“Well,” Neal noticed Emma walking up. “I’ve got someone to introduce to you. I suspect you don’t remember me telling you about her. This is my  . . . girlfriend, serious girlfriend, Emma Swan. Emma, this is Belle.”

“So nice to meet you,” Belle extended her hand to Emma.  Emma had never met the princess even though she’d been charged with some aspects of her security.

At the moment, Emma had disposed of the outward indicators of her job as a police officer.  She looked like any other pretty young woman out for the afternoon with her special fellow.

“Nice meetin’ you, too,” Emma answered.  Standing up close, Emma could see the young woman’s flawless complexion, her shining hair, her perfect teeth. She was lovely. Emma actually recognized the little Target outfit from some of the photographs she had looked over when she took on the security detail, but the hair was totally changed – and not something you’d associate with a princess by any means.   

“Emma, this is my dad. Usually, people just call him Gold,” Neal finished introducing Emma. _Emma knew about Neal’s father – a mega-talented reporter who’d run into some trouble – something about giving up his seat to a soldier and, instead, he rode hanging on the back of a jeep.  As she recalled the story, the jeep had been car bombed or hit with a missile, something like that. Everyone on board was killed, except the reporter who’d been blown away from the vehicle. He’d spiraled downhill after this and ended up with an opioid addiction and rehab. What was he doing out on the town with a royal princess?  Did the princess know he was a reporter? Emma thought not. This was a story, a story he was working on, getting the real scoop on the everyday life of a runaway princess._

The foursome got on the Pubcycle. Neal and Emma drank a couple of beers. Belle indulged in what Gold suspected was her first beer, finishing it off with gusto _while he managed to get a couple of choice pictures_. He finished his soft drink – no alcohol for him; although alcohol had never been Gold’s drug of choice, he had learned that he would be better off avoiding something potentially addictive – at least for a while.

Besides, he was on assignment and he didn’t drink when he was working.  

The group rode through the town, pumping the bicycle pedals and drinking beer and soft drinks. After the hour tour, the foursome got off, laughing and feeling relaxed.

Gold had been racking his brain, trying to remember about Neal’s girlfriend. She was a breathtaking blonde. Gold had always favored brunettes, or the occasional redhead, himself. But there was something, something about Miss Swan. It was important and he should know it. 

Jeez, the medications he’d been on had shot holes in his memory and he just couldn’t pull it out. 

“Listen,” Gold told them. “I’m not ready to drive back to the hotel.  What else is going on that we can walk to?”

“The Fall Craft Fair is in full swing down at the auditorium,” Emma shared.

“I’m in,” Gold said. 

“Excellent,” Belle agreed eagerly. 

“There is also a ghost tour in the evening,” Neal told them. “And more dancing in Biltmore Village.”

“Well, I’ve got some things I need to take care of,” Emma told them.  “But I’d be up for the ghost tour. It’s a walking tour. Starts at 8 o’clock,” she told them.

Neal also begged off for the afternoon, sharing he had some other things to take care of but would meet up with them later in the day at Battery Park.

“Come on then,” Gold told Belle and was surprised when she reached out to hold his hand. 

They walked along going up the hill to the auditorium.  “Still having fun?” Gold asked her.

“I am.  I am.  This is the most wonderful day I’ve ever had.  Thank you, thank you so much for . . . being with me,” she told him.  She looked at him with absolute adoration _and his thoroughly blackened heart melted just a little._

“What do you normally do with your day?” he asked.

“Oh . . . things . . . just things.  I generally keep to a pretty rigid schedule. It gets wearing after a while.”

“You said you worked in your family’s business?” he asked.

“Yes, it’s very . . .  uh . . . high maintenance.”

“It sounds like you’re not very happy,” he speculated.

“Well . . . sometimes. There are some real benefits, but  . . . there are a lot of demands,” she admitted.

“So, if you’re aren’t happy, why don’t you quit?” he asked her.

“Oh. . . people in my family’s business rarely . . . quit.” 

“Sounds kinda sad,” he observed.

“It can be.”

They turned the corner to walk to the auditorium’s entrance and Belle shared, “I sometimes do think about quitting. My dad has thought about it too, but I don’t know if either one of us would be able to go through with it,” she said quietly.

“Really?” _Now, this was a piece of news. King Maurice and Princess Isabella were considering giving up the throne?! What? Were they going to abdicate and let the next schmuck in line take over? Or were they going to dissolve the monarchy?_

“Do you have time for a boyfriend?” he asked, _remembering that Regina had wanted a love angle._

She laughed. “Not really, certainly no one special, although my father would very much like to see me get married and start on the grandbabies.”

“So, you’re not seeing anyone?” he pushed.

She shook her head. “Now, what do you do?” she turned on him.

“Me?!  I . . . I just . . .  I’m a writer,” he stumbled as he tried to respond without telling her anything.

“Really? How very interesting. Anything I might have read?”

“Uh . . . probably not. It’s dull . . . non-fiction . . . stuff about . . . . uh . . . . people . . . and places . . .  and . . .  uh . . . . things,” he struggled. He glanced at her. She was watching him with amusement in her bright blue eyes.

“You seem unsure of what it is that you do for a living,” she commented.

Gold inwardly cringed. The girl was bright and intuitive. He needed to backpedal quickly.

“It’s just that I write a lot of technical stuff. . .  very boring, nothing interesting, nothing romantic.” _Now, why had he said that?_

“But to set your own hours . . . to write about things you find interesting, even if no one else does. To be free . . . unencumbered, to be able to make your own decisions,” her voice drifted off.

“Well, I wouldn’t say that. I have a bitch of a boss,” he began.

She was smiling broadly at him. “I can’t imagine you answering to a woman.”

“Hey, my boss is not a woman. A woman is soft and . . . . comforting and makes a man feel special. My boss is hard and . . . well, she sure as hell doesn’t make me feel special.”

They were standing in a cool spot. _Damn, she was beautiful . . . and soft. . .  and comforting._ He hadn’t intended for anything to happen.  _This was a royal princess and probably half his age. . ._ He found himself looking into her eyes, the blueness reflecting the sky and he found himself falling into them. She seemed so warm, so inviting. It was only for a moment, but she tilted her face up to his and there was barely an inch between their lips and one of them, both of them, closed the distance, touching their lips together, a chaste kiss, a tender kiss.

For Belle, it was her first kiss. 

Oh, but she wanted more, so much more, so very much more. 

They separated and he cleared his throat. _Jeez, he hadn’t had any beer, but he was acting drunk_. “I’m sorry, that was over the line,” he quickly apologized. “We don’t really know each other . . . And I . . . “

“It was lovely,” Belle whispered. “Let’s do it again,” and this time she was the one who closed the distance. Gold found himself fully engaged in the kiss, gently nudging her soft petal lips open, sensing that this was new for her, but that she was willing and eager. She was sweet and responsive.   Somehow during the kiss, their hands had come up and wrapped around each other. He was holding her head in one hand and the other had twined around her waist, pulling her closer. She had brought her arms up and around him so that she could hold onto him. She opened to him, her own sweet flavor flooding him, the warmth of her body seeping into his. He felt he could lean against her and she would hold him upright.

They separated and he was momentarily stunned. He didn’t know which way to go, what to do. 

“Thank you,” she said to him. “That was . . . remarkable.”

“Yes, yes it was,” he agreed. _It was more than remarkable. His blood had sung, his body had responded, his instincts had all kicked in, including those that said to drag her into the nearest alley and ravage her and those other instincts that said he needed to take care of her and protect her._

“I . . . uh. . . I guess, we need to head on to the auditorium for the Craft Show,” he told her.

“I guess,” she smiled at him. And they walked, with her linking her arm in his.

He brought them admission tickets and they began to weave their way through the crowds walking through the show. Belle stopped to look at . . . nearly everything. She liked the stained glass, the pottery, the hand woven clothing, the fine wood crafted items, the funny puppets. She especially liked the handcrafted, artist-created jewelry, her own fashion-conscious eye drawn to some of the exquisite designs. 

Unable to stop himself, Gold bought her one of the silver necklaces that she had admired. He used the company credit card. He’d worry about the consequences later. 

“This is too much,” she told him. “I think that necklace was very expensive. You shouldn’t have.”

“It’s beautiful on you,” he had fastened it around her neck and stood back. “You are . . . you are so beautiful,” he said catching his breath when she turned her blue eyes on him. 

“You are very handsome,” she told him. 

“No, I have no illusions. My ex-wife told me I had pretty eyes and other women have complimented me on my hands, but I’m not handsome. “

“You were married before? Of course, that’s where your son came from,” she said as they walked on through some other exhibits

“I was very young and we were very in love but . . . it didn’t last. My career took a downturn and the marriage went south. I . . . came home unexpectedly one afternoon and . . . uh. . .  well, let’s just say I had grounds for divorce.”

“I’m sorry,” Belle turned to him.

“Oh, don’t be. She’s remarried and, from what I’ve heard, is happy as she can be.”

“And you? You didn’t find anyone else?”

“No, I threw myself into my . . . uh . . . writing and that started going well, actually very well.”

She gazed at him, admiration shining in her eyes, disconcerting him.  “Nice,” she finally said.

It was after five when they left the Craft Show.   

“Supper?” he asked her.

“Oh, that would be lovely,” she told him. “You’ll have to suggest. I don’t know what’s available.”

“Well, we have the Local Taco, the Laughing Seed, which is vegetarian, Chai Pani, which is Indian street food, Le Bouchon, which is French. Oh, I know. Let’s go to Tupelo Honey. It’s southern cuisine,” he decided and they walked down Heywood to Patton to the restaurant. Belle again took his arm and leaned against him.

It had been a long time since he’d had a woman, particularly a stunning woman, hold his hand and lean against him. It was decidedly pleasant and he was enjoying himself, not to mention basking in the approving looks he would get from other men along the way. He was still taking the odd picture now and again and recording conversations, but he was beginning to feel self-conscious about his actions. _There was a part of him that felt . . . dirty . . . as if he was doing something that he shouldn’t be doing, something underhanded, something sneaky. He sighed._

_He knew he only felt that way because it was true._

They shared some shrimp and grits for supper. He couldn’t help but notice her perfect manners, how she would tilt her head to listen to him when he talked, how she seemed to notice everything going on around them and took delight in whatever she was doing.

She was the most engaging woman he’d ever been with. 

And the most beautiful.

And the nicest.

“This is very good food. I’ve never had, what did you call these? . . . the fried green tomatoes, before,” Belle told him, her expressive face mirroring her inner delight at the savory vegetable.

“What kind of food do you eat?” he asked.

“Oh, I have to attend a lot of sta. . . .a. . .  a lot of dinners where there is filet mignon and such, but when I’m at home I much prefer plain, simple food.”

“You cook a lot?” he asked curiously.

“Oh, I wish. The only thing I really know how to make are peach tarts. It was something my mother taught me before she died.”

“Your mother died?” _He had a vague memory of reading this somewhere._

“When I was twelve. A horrible car accident.”

“I’m so sorry for your loss – losing a parent . . . a loving parent,” he didn’t finish the thought. It took him a moment before he could continue, “But she taught you how to make peach tarts?”

Belle managed a smiled. “She did . . . and to love books and reading and learning.” She sighed, “I miss her every day. There was so much more she could have taught me. And not just about cooking.”

“I’m sure. Well, maybe some day, you’ll have the opportunity to learn to cook other things – uh . . . that is . . . if that’s what you want to do.”

“Yes, maybe, that would be nice,” she told him.  And she gave him the gentlest of smiles, a smile then went right to his core and burned. 

_How many times did he have to remind himself?  She’s a royal princess, you dolt! Half your age. Pure and innocent. What? You think she’s gonna throw over her throne for the likes of you. At best, you’re a little fling that she’ll indulge in while she’s away from the limelight. She’s bound to marry some rich, cultured ponce who plays polo and badminton and drinks limoncello. You’re a divorced, recovering drug addict who thrives on danger and confrontation – hardly prince material._

_But he was falling for her. Even though it had just been one day, he was falling for her. He couldn’t help himself._

Belle couldn’t help but notice that Gold had become introspective and quiet during the meal. She took the opportunity to study the man in the half-light of the restaurant. He had an interesting, expressive face with beautiful whiskey-brown eyes. His nose, well, it might have been broken at one time or another. He had a mouth that was slightly crooked and little lines around the corners of his eyes. She thought him handsome, but not in a pretty-boy manner. He had character and personality in his face.

_Get a hold of yourself, girl. He’s a regular guy and if he found out you were a royal princess, he would probably run for the hills. He’s worldly and knowledgeable and you’re barely out of the school room. He probably thinks you’re some spoilt, sheltered rich girl. He’s probably used to women who are CEO’s and clever and sophisticated and . . . experienced._  

_She was falling for him. After a single day, she was falling for him. She couldn’t help herself._

She didn’t stop herself when she felt the urge to reach across the table and hold his hand. He didn’t pull back, just glancing down and letting the moment happen.

As they sat in the restaurant they couldn’t help but notice several large screen televisions set about. Several were set on a news channel.

“Tonight, there is still no further word from the bedside of Princess Isabella in Asheville, North Carolina. She was taken ill yesterday two weeks into her whirlwind tour of the United States. There are now rumors circulating that her illness may be serious, which is causing alarm and anxiety among the people of her country. His Royal Highness, King Maurice, is not well enough to make the journey to the United States but he is getting regular updates regarding his daughter’s condition.”

Gold didn’t remember tasting a bite of his food, he was so caught up in the woman across the table from him. He’d heard the news report in the background and he couldn’t help but notice she had become subdued, almost sad. When it came time to pay the check, he picked it up and held out his hand to her to rise. They walked together up to the Battery to get ready for the Ghost Walk. Belle now seemed hesitant.

“Perhaps I should be going back,” she said.

“If that’s what you want,” he told her, suspecting that she was feeling guilty about her actions, particularly as they were affecting her father. 

“But I want to spend time with you, too,” she told him. He couldn’t quite tell but in the minimal light, it looked like her eyes were glistening.

Neal and Emma joined them, interrupting the moment. 

“I’ve lived in Asheville all my life, but I’ve never done anything like this,” Emma told them. They had met in a creepy alley and began the walking tour with their knowledgeable guide, listening to town history and, some lurid history. They kept their cameras ready for anything.

Belle had slipped her arm around Gold’s, her body pressed against his as they stood and as they walked. He couldn’t help but notice how well, how perfectly she fit against him. He laid his hand over hers and gave the guide minimal attention, focusing instead on Belle, how the warmth of her body seeped into his, the smell of her hair pleasantly assailing his nostrils, the smoothness of her skin delighting his fingertips.

Belle knew she should be listening to the mysterious history and all the reports of weird happenings and strange sounds, but now she was vacillating between concern for her father and concentrating on Gold, how he felt strong and comforting and how protected and safe she felt with him.  

Emma watched the twosome. They seemed very comfortable with each other – it was easy to see them as a couple. The Princess would often lean up against the man who would wrap his arms protectively around her. At times, Emma would notice that Gold would press his lips against her ear in an almost-kiss and the young woman would smile up at him delightedly. 

Emma really wasn’t sure exactly what was going on.  They seemed genuinely attracted to each other, perhaps even infatuated, but . . . there was something off – they both seemed sad. Perhaps they knew this was something that couldn’t last.

Nothing of note happened to them on the tour. It was a pleasant, albeit spooky, walk in the city after dark.

It was after eleven when they were finished and the couples separated.

“That was strange,” Neal told Emma.

“The tour?”

“No, I’m talking about my dad and his gorgeous young girlfriend.”

“You liked her, didn’t you?”

“What’s not to like,” Neal replied. “I can see what he sees in her, but . . . “

“What does she see in him?” Emma asked and when Neal nodded, she laughed. “Oh Neal, your dad is a pretty hot guy. I know you don’t think of him that way, but I’m here to tell you. He’s interesting and, well, he totally has the bad boy image going for him.”

“Sounds like you should be dating him,” Neal said, perhaps a bit sourly.

“No way. I’m going with the latest model of the Stiltskin men,” Emma assured him.

 

Belle and Gold began to walk back to the Rankin Street Garage. 

_It was time, they both knew -- it was time for them to part._

Belle had dropped her head. “I really had a wonderful time,” she said as they walked along.

“Me too,” he told her honestly.

“I’m so glad I met you. I’ve never met anyone like you,” she told him.

“I feel the same way about you,” he answered.

“I do have to go back,” she said slowly.

“I understand,” he answered.

“I don’t want to. I want to stay with you,” she said honestly. “I have all these feelings and I want to find out if they are real and lasting and if they will grow and . . . I don’t want to leave you.”

“I don’t want you to go, either. I have feelings and, I can tell you, it’s not something that I’ve ever felt before, not so quickly, not so deeply. I would like you to stay, but I know you have to go. Maybe . . . . maybe, we’ll see each other around,” he added lamely. 

_Oh hell, he doubted they would ever see each other again – certainly, they would never be alone together again._

 


	5. Disappoint

_Hell, he doubted they would ever see each other again – certainly, they would never be alone together again._

“Yes, maybe I’ll see you . . . around,” she agreed, clearly not believing it would happen either.

And as they stepped into the shelter of the garage they stopped and turned to each other.  Belle raised her arms to him and he stepped into them. She lifted her face and he leaned forward to graze her cheek with his lips.  He heard her, a little whimpering sound, and he kissed her again, shifting his lips to lock onto hers and she softly opened her mouth to his.

This time they were kissing as if . . . as if it would be the last time they would be together. 

This time they were sharing a heated, soul-searing kiss, one that kindled flames and desires deep in the cores of their bodies. This time they were kissing, hoping this moment would somehow assuage the aching pain they were both feeling.

“I . . . I can drive you back.  Where do I let you off?” he asked, finally pulling back.  There had been a lot of salt in that kiss and he was having definite difficulties holding himself together. _He so wanted to take her back to his hotel room and lay her on the bed. If she’d been any other woman, he’d consider the back seat of his car. Hell, he’d consider up against the wall of the parking garage in some darkest corner._

_But not with her. She deserved silk sheets, well, at least, clean ones._

“How about you let me off at that bench where you picked me up,” she suggested, biting her lip to stop herself from bursting into sobs.

“I can do that,” he answered without looking at her. _He couldn’t look at her._   They returned to his car and drove in silence to the south, back to the bench that was set next to the posh hotel.  Gold kept his eyes on the road.  He was afraid that if he looked at her, he might see that she was crying and if she were crying he would stop the car and gather her into his arms and they would kiss again and this time he wouldn’t let her go.

_No, he couldn’t look at her._

“I want you to stop the car at the bench, let me out and drive away,” she spoke softly. “I don’t want you to look back or stop or anything – just drive away.”

He understood.

He stopped, pulling up to the curb next to the bench.  Without looking at him, Belle got out of his car and walked to the bench.  She sat on it and watched as he drove away.  She wiped away her tears.

This was the hardest thing she had ever done.  

 

Once she could no longer see the taillights of his vehicle, she walked back to the front of the hotel, slipping in one of the side doors. She went up the back stairs, greeted the stunned guard and returned to her room. Cora and Revêur were there.

“Where have you been?  Twenty-four hours without any word!” Cora began.

“I’m sorry to have caused so many people so much distress,” Belle replied, speaking slowly and distinctly.

“What explanation are we to offer to his Majesty?” Revêur asked.

“That I was indisposed . . . but now I’m better,” Belle answered.

“But Princess.  You must appreciate that we have our duties to perform, just as you have your duty . . .” Cora began.

Belle interrupted the Countess, “I trust you will not find it necessary to use that word again.  Were I not completely aware of my duty to my family and to my country, I would not have come back tonight. . . or indeed ever again.” Belle walked across the room, “Now, I understand that we have a full schedule tomorrow.  You have my permission to withdraw.”

Cora and General Revêur looked at her, then at each other.  They bowed to her and headed for the door.  At the door, Cora took a tray from a cart.

“No milk and cookies tonight.  That will be all Countess,” Princess Isabelle told Cora, who turned and nodded at the princess and left the room, taking the tray and closing the door behind her. 

**The Next Morning**

Gold sat in his hotel room, looking out the window.  There was a knock on the door. For a moment, Gold looked up, hopefully.

It was Jefferson.  “Well, Gold, tell me everything.  What did you get?”

“What did I get?”

“What do you mean? What did you get? The Princess story!  The exclusive.  Didn’t you get it?”

“Oh . . . no, no.  I didn’t get it,” Gold told him. 

“Wha-at?!  But you spent the whole frickin’ day with her.  Did my camera break?  Did your recorder fail?”

“Why don’t we go out for some coffee?” Gold suggested.

“Gold, you can’t hold out on me any longer.”

“Who’s holding out on you?” Gold asked him.

“You are,” Jefferson insisted. 

“I don’t understand what you are talking about,” Gold insisted.

“No, no, no,” Jefferson was not going to let this drop. “I know too much. First, I see you two together when I’ve been told she’s laid up sick. She wasn’t hard to recognize even with her hair shorter. And then you two disappear for the entire day. You know there were rumors that the princess wasn’t really sick, that she was out on the town.”

“Hey, what kind of reporter are you? You believe every two-bit rumor that comes your way?” Gold had shrugged and turned away from his friend.

“Yeah, I heard that the American officer who was in charge of security also spent some time in town. Now, gi-ive. What were you up to?”

Gold paused. “Can you keep a secret? A really big secret?”

Jefferson sat on Gold’s bed.  “Yeah. . . yeah, I can. What happened?”

Gold walked over to his computer.  “Here, look at these.”

Jefferson began to scroll through the file. First up, was a picture of the princess eating hash browns with chili and onions. Another one was of her laughing face while she showed off her new earrings. And another was her drinking a beer on the pub cycle. There were more, each one showing the princess enjoying her day in town, getting to do all the things she wasn’t normally allowed to do.

“Wow, these are great. What do you mean there’s no story here? This looks like the scoop of the decade.”

“I know, but I . . . I can’t file it.” Gold reached up to turn off the computer.

Jefferson looked at his old friend. “Oooh, I get it. I totally get it. You got too close.” Jefferson tried to reason, to confront his friend, “Gold, she’s fair game. It’s always open season on princesses.”

“Not this time,” Gold insisted. “I can’t. . . I can’t do it.”

“You know we have another news conference with her at ten this morning,” Jefferson gently reminded him. “You might want to shave. You look like hell.”

**10 that Morning**

It was a cram-packed large conference room in the hotel. A dais had been put on one end. Gold managed to push his way toward the front of the crowd. He saw a man in a military uniform checking things out. Once Military Man was satisfied, he nodded at someone off stage.

“Ladies and Gentlemen,” the Military Man announced to the audience of reporters, “Her Royal Highness.” 

In a moment, the Princess emerged accompanied by the Ambassador and the Countess. Gold smiled slightly as she approached. The princess stood out in front on the dais dressed impeccably in a light blue dress with a little gold collar. _He could see a sliver of silver chain on her neck and knew she was wearing the necklace he had bought her underneath the dress._ There was the flash of cameras. Television cameras crowded around.

“Your Royal Highness, the ladies and gentlemen of the press,” the military man, General Revêur, introduced them to the princess.

Belle turned to the gathering, raising and lowering her head in acknowledgment of them. As she looked over them, her eyes fell on Gold and she startled just slightly. Her expression hardened a little. She looked down as the Ambassador motioned to the chair with his hand.  She sat back gracefully and her eyes searched for Gold. They locked eyes for a moment. Gold did his best to give her a reassuring smile. Belle closed her eyes and turned her head, nodding to the General.

“Ladies and gentlemen, Her Royal Highness will now answer your questions.”

One of the correspondents spoke up quickly, “Biberman, CNN. I believe at the outset, Your Highness, that I should express the pleasure of all of us at your recovery from the recent illness.”

Belle smiled graciously at the man, “Thank you.”

Another correspondent, Lawson with the Wall Street Journal, was selected to ask her a question, “Does your Highness believe that it would be beneficial for the European Union to continue?”

Belle responded, “I am in favor of any measure which would lead to closer cooperation in Europe.”

Another correspondent, The Times’ Maltz, was selected, “And what, in the opinion of Your Highness, is the outlook for friendship and cooperation among nations?”

Belle paused before answering, “I have every faith in it. . . “ she looked at Gold, “just as I have faith in relations between people.” Cora and the Ambassador exchanged looks at her answer, which had deviated from her carefully scripted responses.

Gold spoke up without being called upon, “May I say, speaking for my own press service, that we believe that Your Highness’s faith will not be unjustified.”

Belle smiled very slightly. She licked her lips and responded, “I’m so glad to hear you say this.”

Another correspondent was selected, “Which of the cities visited did Your Highness enjoy most?”

Belle looked at Gold but didn’t respond immediately.

The General leaned in and quietly prompted her, “Each in its own way. . . “

“Each city, in its own way, has been unforgettable. It would be difficult to . . .” Belle stopped. Her face softened. “Asheville, by all means, Asheville.” The audience stirred at her unusual, unexpected response. Belle looked directly at Gold, “I will cherish my visit here in memory as long as I live.”

“Despite your indisposition, Your Highness?” the reporter followed up.

Belle turned back to the reporter and favored him with a beaming smile, “Despite that.”

“Photographs may now be taken,” the General told the crowd of reports and many of them took pictures of the attractive, smiling princess who stood and came forward.

“Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. Thank you very much,” General Revêur said, signaling a dismissal.

Belle turned to the general. “I would now like to meet some of the ladies and gentlemen of the press.” She stepped down from the dais and approached the journalists. There was a stirring in the ranks – this was unanticipated.

“Trumbo, Washington Post,” the first gentleman introduced himself.

“Happy to meet you, Mr. Trumbo.”

“Ornitz, NBC news,” the second reporter spoke up.

“Nice to meet you,” she smiled at the woman.

She walked down the line of reporters, getting their names and greeting each one. She reached Gold. “Gold, ATNN News.”

“How do you do,” she said and reached out to shake his hand.

“I . . . eh . . . I would like to present Your Highness with some commemorative photos of your visit to Asheville. This includes the flash drive with the originals.” He handed her a large brown envelope.

Belle opened the envelope and looked at the first picture which happened to be one of her drinking a beer on the pub cycle. She smiled and looked up at him, “Thank you, thank you so very much.”

The two stood looking at each other, their eyes locked together. For a long moment, they just stood looking at each other.

General Revêur, who had been following her, leaned in. “Ahem, Princess?” he questioned.

Belle broke the eye contact and Gold managed a head nod. Belle finished going down the line of reporters, turned and walked slowly up the steps. As she turned the press began to slowly applaud her. She smiled broadly at them, her eyes sparkling. She ventured one last look at Gold and her expression turned sorrowful. She managed another slight smile and then turned away from the press conference.  She walked slowly and gracefully towards the exit.

“Wow, that was unexpected,” Gold heard one of the reporters share.  “To have her go off-script like that and then to come down and shake hands with the _hoi polloi_ here.”

“Yeah, and they don’t get no more _hoi polloi_ than reporters,” someone else shot back.

The reporters filed out leaving Gold and Jefferson.

“This is going to cost you, isn’t it?” Jefferson asked him.

“I owe Regina six months’ worth of arse-kissing.”

“Was she worth it?” Jefferson asked.

“Yeah, absolutely,” Gold confirmed. “Absolutely worth it.”

**That Afternoon.**

“Soooo, you didn’t get the interview?  _Quell surpreez_ ,” Regina said sourly. “But on the upside, your ass is mine for the next six months.  Or . . . maybe not . . .”

Gold barely heard her. “Whaaat? What do you mean, ‘or not?’”

“The Big Guy got a call from the State Department who’d gotten a call from the Avonleigh Embassy. You must have done _something_ that impressed them. They want to borrow you for . . .  at least, a couple of weeks. Something about a puff piece on the princess. It will gee-haw with your doctor’s orders, keep you out of trouble – I hope  -- and the United States government will be grateful for your cooperation.”

“Whaa-aat?” Gold sat up. “The Avonleigh people want me to interview the Princess? Write about her . . . over a couple of weeks?”

“Yeah, I thought it was strange too. You think they’d have one of their own people for this kind of twaddle, not a war correspondent.”

“What do I do about princess etiquette crap and stuff?” he whined.

_But inside he knew, he knew the princess had arranged this._

_They were to be thrown together for weeks and weeks._

**Morning Television**

Goooood Mooorning Ammmmerrica,” the pretty blonde greeted her audience with her characteristic enthusiasm. “Well, this is quite a story.  Not only is Princess Isabella back on the trail, displaying a chic new haircut – I’m totally getting one like hers – but, apparently, she’s totally recovered from whatever took her down in Asheville. And she has become the darling of the press. The story is that in her last photo-op in Asheville, she was brave enough to go down and meet a lot of the members of the press and they went . . . well, they just went crazy over the gesture.”

“I’m also recognizing one of these reporters,” Mallie spoke up. “I’ve seen some pictures from her Asheville visit and there, in the background, is one of our own, the intrepid, fearless correspondent R. Gold. You may remember some of his other work from the war in Afghanistan, the war in Iraq, his work in North Korea.  You may know that on his last assignment, he was wounded when the Humvee he was riding in along with some American troops was hit with mortar fire. He had given his seat up to one of the soldiers and agreed to ride hanging on to the outside. When they were hit, the Humvee turned over and everyone in it was killed except Gold who was thrown away from the vehicle and very badly injured.”

“There’s more, Mallie,” Ashley gushed. “Word from the Avonleigh Embassy is that Gold has been selected by her Royal Highness to do a special, in-depth interview, a for real and for true, person to person, deepest feelings, unrealized dreams, hopes, and desires, of this young royal. What a scoop for ATNN!”

“Is Gold going to be up for this type of interview?” Mallie asked with a touch of disbelief

“He’s interviewed gang leaders, terrorists, and serial killers,” Ashley began, as always speaking brightly and smiling at the camera.

“But this is a royal princess,” Mallie noted and then slowly, she smiled at the camera.  “I’m thinking -- he may have his hands full.”

**A Royal Hotel Room**

Gold sat in an overly-decorated room, feeling decidedly and desperately out of place.  When ATNN got the call, Gold had, at Regina’s insistence, dressed in a suit for the appointment.  It was a nice suit, a designer one that had been tailored to him.  He’d picked it up in Paris, dark gray with a black shirt and a burgundy tie. 

Sitting in the upscale room, he realized that he was really wanting a couple of quick hits and had called Hopper, his doctor from his rehab to have the man talk him down.  He considered a couple of drinks but had decided against them too.  He might could handle the alcohol if it was a single drink in a social setting, but he thought he was still too fragile to challenge his resolve and sobriety by drinking alone.  Certainly, any time he drank to numb himself, to avoid dealing with issues – that could get him into trouble.

And he didn’t want to get into trouble.

He was here to talk to the Princess’s security and protocol people.

He’d never been so uncomfortable in his life. 

A short, bearded, older man came in. Gold recognized him as the Military Man from the Princess’s last news conference in Asheville.  He seemed rather disgruntled. “You’re Rumold Gold?” he asked him.

Gold nodded. “And you are?”

“General Le Roy Grumwald Revêur. I’m head of the Princess’s security. Have a drink?”

“Just soda water for me,” Gold told him. _He could, he would get through this sober._

“Not looking forward to this, you know,” the general told him. “I’ve pretty well put together that you pulled her Royal Highness off of a bench, gave her a safe place to stay and showed her the town.”

Gold nodded, beginning to like the gruff, little general. “I’m not looking forward to this either,” he told the man. “You’ve put it together pretty well. I had planned to get an exclusive story about the personal life of the princess. . . “

“But you changed your mind,” the general smiled at him. “Our princess is a formidable young woman. She realizes that you passed up on a major story so as not to cause her any undue embarrassment. She is enormously appreciative and  . . . well, she wanted to talk to you again.”

“To give me the chance to do the story but, this time, with her on board?” Gold elaborated.

“Yes, you understand. I’m not sure any good will come of this. I think it’s best when the royal family stays a bit distant from the rest of us,” Revêur shook his head.

They were interrupted by a beautiful, but cold, older woman.  She was dressed impeccably in a designer outfit and smiled at Gold, her eyes taking in his very nice suit.

“Cora, this is Rumold Gold,” Revêur made the introductions and then turned to Gold, “May I present the Countess Corina du Couer.”

“Lady du Couer,” Gold stood and nodded his head.

“I’m very glad to meet you, Mr. Gold. When I heard we were to meet with an investigative reporter, I imagined someone with an ill-fitting suit, smoking a cigar,” she smiled and offered her hand.

“I hope I don’t disappoint,” he told her.

“No, not at all.  Not at all,” she reassured him, her eyes flicking down his slim form, reflecting a clear carnal interest. 


	6. Invitations

 

Cora had smiled and offered him her hand.

“I hope I don’t disappoint,” he told her.

“No, not at all.  Not at all,” she reassured him, her eyes flicking down his slim form, reflecting a clear carnal interest.  “I take it General Revêur has shared with you the purpose of our invitation.”

“Yes.  I gather that Belle. . . uh. . . Princess Isabella wanted me to do a puff . . . uh . . . an in-depth interview with her.”  He looked at Revêur, “And your job is to make sure I don’t represent any threat to the royal family,” and then he turned to Cora, “And your job is to make sure I don’t represent any threat to the royal dignity.”

“Well, I don’t know if. . . “ General Revêur began.

“That’s well said, Mr. Gold,” Cora interrupted.  “I appreciate a man who reads a complex situation correctly,” and she smiled at him. Without looking at the general, she addressed him, “Grumpy dear, why don’t you leave us? Mr. Gold and I can look over Her Highness’s itinerary and he can see how he can best fit in.”

The General caught Gold’s eye and he slightly shook his head. “Call me, if I can help with anything,” he said, directing his message to Gold.

Cora hooked her arm into Gold’s. “Come on, let’s go into this next room.  It has a proper sofa we can sit on.”

Gold had been with predatory females before and he was certainly no stranger to threatening situations.  Every antenna, every early warning device, every bit of tingling spider sense going off full-tilt as he walked along side this woman. He was glad he’d passed on the drink. _This woman was dangerous._ He smiled.   _This could prove to be more interesting than he’d thought it might._

She settled him in on the comfy sofa and pulled out her tablet computer.  “Tonight, we’re flying up to Boston. Tomorrow morning, the Princess will start with a staff breakfast at the hotel. That’s a common occurrence.  We typically invite members of whatever hotel we’re staying at to join us.  It creates a sense of. . .  comradery.”

He nodded.

“Then at nine, she’ll visit a local business and at eleven, she’ll attend a sporting event. At six in the evening she’ll have a meal at some restaurant the locals have selected for her and at eight, she’ll attend a concert.  I have it on the tablet.”

“May I get a copy of her itinerary?  It would be easier for me to just look it over than to have you explain it to me.”

Cora had her hand on his knee. “Of course. I confess I’m used to going over it with the Princess. She has a remarkable memory, you know. She can hear the itinerary once and she has it.”

He nodded, “Pretty remarkable considering that it’s much the same cra . . . uh . . . stuff, but in different order and at different times.”

“You got that quickly,” she complimented him.

“You’ve been with her a while?” he asked, slipping into reporter mode and flicking on one of his audio recording devices. He held it up so that Cora could see she was being recorded.

“Since she was twelve and started making official public appearances.  Her mother’s untimely death left a void. Those duties normally done by the queen, such as the opening of bridges and hospitals and schools and entertaining visiting dignitaries . . . well, there was no one to do them.  Princess Isabella began picking up on as many of them as she could even though she was still going to school.”

“She’s a smart girl I understand,” he commented.

“She’s brilliant.” Cora reached forward and turned off the recorder. “Which, I hesitate to say, is not a quality often found in the members of the royal families, but her mother was well-read and a good student and her Royal Highness takes after her beloved mother,” Cora told him. 

“Her mother was not royalty, was she?” Gold asked, turning the recorder back on.  _He had had time to do a little homework._

Cora stiffened slightly. “She was the daughter of a shopkeeper and a school teacher.  But his majesty fell in love with her.”

“Ah . . . true love,” Gold said, perhaps a bit surly.

“It did set a new tone for the royal family that marriage doesn’t have to be for state reasons,” Cora shared.  “We’re no longer living in the seventeenth century and making alliances with other countries through marriage contracts.”

“Modern times are upon us,” agreed Gold.  He continued, “I understand she’s multilingual?”

Cora answered, “Oh yes.  English, as you know, French, German, Spanish and Italian, of course.  Along the way, she’s picked up a little Japanese, Farsi, Russian and I don’t know what all.  She has a smattering of any number of languages.” Cora sat back on the sofa. “I understand that you’re also quite adept at languages.”

“Not like her Royal Highness,” he said self-deprecatingly. “I’ve picked up most of mine in bars and from whor . . .  uh . . . from hanging around the common people,” he finished awkwardly. 

“Yes,” she said slowly.  “I understand that a man . . .  like yourself . . . well, you must’ve gotten around some. I’m still not sure why, when the Princess decided that she wanted to do an in-depth interview, she selected you, going so far as to insist that you do the interview.”

Gold took a sip of his soda water _._ “I assume you had me promptly investigated.”

“We checked your credentials,” Cora admitted, her hand still on his thigh.

“Had me vetted and reviewed,” he continued.

“Had your background scrutinized,” she added, licking her lips.

“Had my personal history assessed,” he said.

“Had every facet examined.” She touched her hair.

“Thorough job of it then,” he told her.

“We’d like to think so,” she replied, smiling seductively at him.

“And what did you think?” he asked.

“You’re brilliant, quite talented, but you’re erratic, unpredictable and susceptible to bouts of depression and self-loathing wherein you indulge in, well, shall we call it . . .  self-medication?”

“Now you sound like my mother,” he told her.

“You never knew your mother,” she let him know.

He had to smile and took another sip of his soda water.  _She’d done her homework too._ “All right then.  You sound like one of the two great-aunts that raised me.”

“Perhaps.” She looked at him, long and steadily.  “Fine then. I’ll give you a copy of her Royal Highness’s schedule the night before.  It would be easiest if I could email it to your phone.  Would that work for you?”

He looked back at her.   _Another time, he’d find this worldly woman worthy of his time – she wasn’t someone looking for anything permanent, just the discreet fling. His particular background made him the target of such women, those who wanted the experience of being with a man of his reputation.  He recognized that such women saw him as a renegade, a man who lived a dangerous life and therefore was dangerous himself, a bad boy that you could dress up but one who was chancy to take into society. He was a thrill ride, someone they could whisper about to the ladies they lunched with._

_But, at the moment, however, her attentions made him feel dirty. He had lately been basking in the attentions of a pure, sweet, innocent young woman, who looked up to him like he was some kind of hero._

_And the funny thing was, he wanted to be that hero._

“That would work for me,” he answered Cora’s question. “That would be just fine.”

“Good,” she rose.  “We’ll be . . .  in touch . . . regularly.” She started out the door. “I trust you’ll do everything you can to keep yourself in the background?”

“I’ll be as non-intrusive as I can,” he promised her.

Once alone, he swigged the remaining bland soda water. _Well, this was going to prove interesting –  keeping Cora at arm’s length while working around her daily._

He debated pouring himself a glass of whiskey but didn’t. 

He was proud of himself for resisting the urge.

**The Summons**

It was later in the afternoon and he’d been flopping in the hotel room he’d been assigned.   _Pretty swank quarters._  He had a king-sized bed with a gi-normous flat-screened television and a wet bar.  He’d plopped on the bed and was watching the ATNN news network.  He felt like the bird in the gilded cage stuck in these luxurious digs.  There were so many open conflicts he itched to be part of, so many shady situations he’d prefer to be investigating, so many crazed leaders he wanted to interview . . .  but noooo, he was stuck here with a bloody princess. 

It was his own fault.  He didn’t know why he hadn’t written up the information on her that he’d gotten from that one day they had spent together.  He’d had more than enough for a sensational article.  Plus, he had gotten some great pictures and a couple of terrific videos – hell, the beer shot alone was worth its weight in air time.

But noooo, he had handed it all back to the princess, had not even kept himself a personal copy. 

_What the hell was wrong with him?_

He’d gone soft. Jefferson had been right. He’d gotten too close to his mark.  She had become a person to him, not just a story. He had started to have feelings for her.

_What the hell had gotten into him?_

He reminded himself – _yet again --_ she was half his age, probably less than half his age.  She was purity and lightness and . . . she was nice.  _And she had tasted so sweet and so delicious, he had wanted to lick her all over.  He had wanted to take her back to his hotel room, dump that it was, and put her on his bed and do a whole lot more than just kiss her._

_She probably was a virgin.  The poor thing was so closely supervised 24/7 that she’d never been alone with a man not her relative or part of her security detail.  He’d been the first man she’d ever been alone with – yeah, she’d told him as much._

He was lying on the bed, playing spider solitaire on his computer when The Summons came.  There was a timid knock on his door.  Too lazy to get up, he called out for them to come in.  It was some young hotel clerk. 

“Sir, Mr. Gold?”

“Yeah, that’s me,” he’d answered.

“I’ve been asked to give this to you, sir,” and the kid held out an envelope.

“Bring it over here,” he told the clerk.  He reached for his wallet, but the kid shook his head. 

“I’ve already been tipped, sir.”

“Cool,” he replied.  He waited until the young man had left.  He looked over the envelope.  It was pink and it smelled good, like vanilla and roses.  He opened it. 

In an example of the nicest penmanship he’d ever encountered, he read, “Please come to room 202.”

It was from the Princess. It wasn’t signed, but he knew it was from the Princess. (If it had been from the Countess, it would have been written in blood red ink on black paper, smell of YSL Opium and would have included lip prints.)

He stretched. He finished his game. He got up, combed his hair, decided to leave his suit jacket in the room. He went on down the hall and as he approached her room, a series of guards stepped aside for him. He was expected.

He tapped on the door.

 _She_ opened it herself.  She smiled widely at him.  “Oh, goody.  You came.  Come in,” and she stepped aside for him.   

He looked around. He didn’t see anyone else. “All right, Princess. Where are the rest of them?” he asked.

“The rest of them?” she repeated puzzled.

“Your entourage. The people who hang around you all day long, protecting your virtue.”

“Oh,” she understood. “I dismissed them. I wanted to see you alone.”

“Really? I thought that kind of thing was . . . frowned upon.”

“It is. This is very riské. We shall no doubt be caught and there’ll be a terrible scandal,” she told him, smiling.

He sat down in one of the velvet embossed chairs, well aware that he was violating protocol. “You seem to enjoy this living on the edge.”

She sat down next to him. “I do.  I really do,” she told him beaming.  “You must know why I wanted to see you again?”

“Not exactly,” he answered honestly.

“Well, I . . . I . . . ” she seemed unusually nervous. “After the news conference, when you handed me those pictures and I realized what had happened . . . well, at first, I was relieved that there wouldn’t be a scandal, and then I was angry that you had deceived me and then I was . . . I was happy that I had gotten to know you.”

 _He did not want to encourage this._ “Uh huh,” was all he said.

“I looked you up. You’re rather famous, you know. Your personal life is a shambles, but in your professional life, you’re well respected, a recipient of a number of awards. I began to wonder . . . I had to wonder . . .  why you had backed off the story.” Her eyes were so blue, so large . . . so innocent  . . . so guileless.

“A moment of . . . empathy,” he told her slowly.

“I made some calls. I found out that you had been put on reduced duties because of a recent rather serious injury.”

He shrugged, avoiding eye contact.  Sitting as close to her as he was, he could smell her light fragrance. 

_It reminded him of what he had wanted to do with her in his hotel room._

“I took away a big story from you, didn’t I? You didn’t have to give it up. But you chose to. I had to know why. Really, why?” Her eyes were locked on him, sincere. . . open . . . and honest.

_Geez, he really did feel dirty._

“You did this, didn’t you, Princess?” he asked her, instead of answering her question.

“Whaa . . ?” she asked.

He made a vague gesture that encompassed the room. “You called the State Department? Had me assigned to you?

“Are you mad at me?” she asked in a little girl voice.

“Oh, hell yeah. I thought I done this great and noble thing – walking away from you before either of us could get hurt or do something we’d regret later. But . . . but then I’m assigned to you.  What the hell were you thinking?”

“I thought that maybe . . . I wanted to see you again.”

“Well fuuu . . . crap!” he swore. “I guess you’re used to getting everything you want! This is not a good idea, Princess.”

“I know,” she agreed quietly, dropping her head.

“Why did you ask for me to do this story?” he asked her.

“I wanted to give you a second chance at it. . .  “

He looked at her, narrowing his eyes. 

She faltered. “I . . . I thought that you, being on reduced duties, well, you might find this an interesting assignment . . . “

He continued to look at her, not moving.

Again, she faltered. “I . . . I wanted to see you again,” she confessed dropping her eyes.

“You think that’s wise?  I mean, you know we’re playing with fire here, Belle. There’s an attraction between us. We can both feel it. But we cannot, we cannot act on it.”

“Why not?” she asked, her eyes still big and blue and innocent.

“Why . . . why not?!” he nearly sputtered. _He had not expected this!_ “I’m more than twice your age. Divorced. Hell, I’m a recovering drug addict. I have a damned dangerous job that requires me to travel and be away from home for long periods of time. If you weren’t a royal princess, if you were just Molly Nobody, your parents wouldn’t, couldn’t approve of me. And I don’t know your daddy, girl, but I’m damn sure the man would not approve of you having a fling with me.”

“Oh,” she said shortly. “Are you telling me that you aren’t up for the job?”

 _It was like she hadn’t heard a word he’d said._ “Oh, I’m up for the job. Have no doubt of that,” he told her. “Are you sure you’re up for having me around all day?”

“I think I’ll be able to resist your charms,” she told him a trifle acerbically. 

_There was a moment when he considered pulling her over to him, kissing her soundly, pressing her soft, warm body to his, laying her down on the bed, pulling up her skirts . . . . Resist his charms, indeed._

“I wasn’t aware I had any charms, Princess,” he told her.  He stood.  “I’ll be getting a copy of your schedule each night. I thought I’d follow you around and, perhaps, at the end of the day, we’ll spend about ten minutes, more if you feel up to it, talking about the day.”

“Of course,” she agreed, also standing up. “We’ll be leaving for Boston this evening . . . very soon, actually . . . on a private plane. It’s a light schedule for my two days there. I know it starts off with a visit to some brewery.”

“In Boston? The Samuel Adams brewery?” That caught his attention. Gold noted the brewery with a note of reverence.

“I believe that’s the one we plan to visit there. And then we’ll watch a baseball game at Fairway Park.”

“Fenway Park,” he corrected her.

“Fenway Park,” she repeated, committing the correct name to memory. “I’ll be expected to be photographed eating baseball cuisine. And then I’ll get something called a Philly steak . . .”

“A Philly cheesesteak,” he clarified for her. 

“A Philly cheesesteak at some little deli. And then we’ll go to a concert with the Boston Pops. The next day, we’ll visit the Boston Children’s Hospital and then we’ll have lunch at some seafood restaurant and then we’ll have a little time off before we fly to Washington D.C. where we’ll have a brief visit with your President and a state dinner at the White House. After that, we’re headed to Paris for a couple of days and then, we’ll be heading back home.”

He had to smile. “That’s a light schedule, huh?” He shook his head – _no wonder the woman had had a breakdown._

After hearing the upcoming schedule, he realized that he needed to confess something. Now was as good a time as any. “White House, huh? Well, you may as well know,” he began slowly, “there’s a very good chance that I won’t be welcome in the White House – and I could sit out dinner, no problem. There’s not an actual restraining order, but I’m pretty much _persona non grata_ there.”

“What did you do?” she asked, a bemused expression crossing her face.

He shrugged. “Nothing. Nothing at all.” He hesitated for a moment before he continued, “It was just a little exposé article I did and it was a while ago.”

“You offended someone?” she asked perceptively.

He shrugged. “Maybe . . . a little. Maybe . . . a lot. Maybe . . . maybe, it was the President.” He shifted, “There was some talk of a lawsuit, maybe charges of treason, but I got displaced by another scandal, so it all blew over. But . . . I can’t imagine anyone there would be happy to see me.”

She gave him a little smile. “Well, now you’re part of my  . . . what did you call it? . . . my entourage. Remember, Avonleigh is the world’s primary source of uranium, so . . .”

“You get what you want?” he followed up.

“As you’ve just found out -- pretty much,” she grinned at him. “There’s a rather large trade deficit in Avonleigh’s favor, so I don’t think they’ll be any problems.” She thought a moment, “But I will want a promise that you’ll be on your best behavior.”

“ _Moi_?” he raised his hand to his chest and feigned hurt feelings. “I’ll try to stay in the background.”

“All right then,” she said. “Are you close to being ready to leave?”

“Of course, I’m always packed and ready to go. Consequence of having been a war correspondent.” He was still standing.  The princess had moved and now had her back to him looking out the window toward the park. 

“How long do you think this interview process will take?” she asked him.

“Depends how in-depth you want it to be,” he told her. “I’d like to get pictures, real pictures, not posed shots, especially if I’m doing something documentary-ish.”

“I think it should be very in-depth,” she said slowly and softly. He had come over to stand behind her. He was close enough to smell her perfume again. “I had your shirt laundered. I was about to make the arrangements to get it back to you, when . . . well, things changed.”

“Perhaps you should keep it. Didn’t you say something about wanting to sleep in a man’s shirt?” he asked her kindly.

“You remember that?” she turned to face him, delighted that he’d remembered.

“I remember every word you ever said, every gesture you ever made, every smile, every frown,” he told her _so wanting to take her into his arms, so wanting to kiss her and run his hands over her fine, firm body._  

They were standing too close together. 

 _She still wore the necklace he’d given her._ She was looking at him, her eyes luminous, her mouth slightly opened, her lips full and soft. He leaned in and barely grazed her lips with his. She turned so that she was facing him.

And then, there was an insistent knock on the door.  


	7. Pink and Gooey Fluff

She had turned so that she was facing him.

There was an insistent knock on the door. She froze. There was another knock. “I’m busy,” she managed to shout out. There was a third knock. She pulled away from Gold and turned toward the door. “All right then. Come in,” she called out.

General Revêur was there, “So sorry, your Highness. But we’re ready to leave for the airport.”

She nodded, “Of course. Thank you so much, General Revêur,” she told him. The door closed again. “You said you were packed and ready to go?” she asked.

“Actually, I never unpack,” he told her. “I’m always ready to move – ten minutes tops.”

“And are you ready at the moment?” she asked him.

_Boy, was he ever ready._ He nodded. “I have a backpack and a carry-on to grab,” he told her.

The next thing, they were in a nondescript black van headed for the airport. Once there, they were rushed through security (Gold found that nice) and then onto a luxurious private plane. The group consisted of her Royal Highness Isabelle, the Countess Cora, General Revêur, Dr. Whale, and Gold. Belle explained that there were some others in the support staff that had already taken, or would be taking, commercial flights to Boston. Gold nodded. He was able to take several pictures and some short videos of the princess as she relaxed on the plane. He wanted to talk but didn’t think she would open up with everyone else there.

The flight was over soon enough, and after deplaning, they got into another nondescript black van to ride to another really nice hotel. Gold had to admit, traveling with the princess was going totally first class – much nicer than his usual accommodations – he’d slept on military cots, on floor boards, _a couple of jail cells,_ and on one mission, on a cave floor, to get his stories.

He found himself sitting in another very nice hotel room. He was in the bed, sitting up with his legs stretched out and his laptop up and running on his lap while he wrote down his impressions. The princess, he wrote, lived in a tightly protected environment. What she was exposed to, what she saw, what she heard, who she met, it was all strictly controlled. She herself was a pleasant, although somewhat naïve young woman. She was genuinely generous, kind and lovely. She was really, really pretty, with her soft skin and gorgeous blue eyes. Her hair was the color of burnished copper, brown with gleaming highlights. She had a cute figure with pert breasts and a tight aaa . . . .

He pulled himself away from his slender laptop. _What the hell was he writing? He sounded like a lovesick teenager. . . . Or an aging pervert._ He deleted his last couple of statements.

He wanted a drink but knew that would probably be a bad idea. He thought he could be at risk for developing a dependency on alcohol – during his treatment they had warned him about substituting one addiction for another. Maybe some coffee – a caffeine addiction was tolerable. He got up to leave his room. Somewhere in this posh hotel, he ought to be able to score some coffee. He opened the door and stopped.

The princess was there, standing in a long bathrobe holding out two cups of something. She ducked in his room going under his arm.

She spoke in a hushed whisper, “Close the door.” She handed him a cup. “I thought you might want some coffee.”

“I do,” he said as he took the cup. He was a bit puzzled as he looked at her, “But it’s late. I . . . I . . . I don’t think . . . you should be in my room with me. Aren’t you supposed to be chaperoned?”

“Oh my, yes. Cora finished her nightly review with me and I pretended I was going to sleep. But I really wanted to talk with you.” He gapped while she removed her bathrobe and revealed a modest white pleated silk blouse tucked into a black pencil skirt – simple, elegant daytime attire.

“Okay,” he still wasn’t sure what she was up to. He motioned her to one of the chairs in the room. He wanted to avoid them sitting on the bed together. “Anything in particular that you wanted to talk about?” he asked.

“I thought we’d start the interview process,” she said brightly, settling into one of two upholstered chairs in the room.

_Did she ever sleep? He wondered._

“Sure,” he told her, now understanding her attire. _Yeah, they could start this evening. No reason not to – the sooner he started, the sooner he’d be finished._  

He took a moment to set up his micro-sized video camera. She crossed her ankles and demurely pulled her skirt down. He sat down in the other chair, sitting across from her.  

“Uhhh. . . .” He pulled out his notebook and stared at it. _He had absolutely no idea where to begin._ “Ummm . . .”

She pulled a face. “You’re a world-class interviewer and this is how you start a conversation?”

“I usually have scheduled the appointment before the interview starts and done some prep work,” he told her peevishly. “All right,” he took a couple of breaths. “Okay.” He looked around the room and licked his lips.

“This seems a bit difficult for you,” she observed dryly.

“It is,” he admitted. “I’m usually interviewing serial killers and . . . and . . . . other mean people. Not princesses.”

“You do seem a bit nervous.”

“I am. I’m not used to having a royal princess in my bedroom.”

“But we spent the night together in Asheville,” she reminded him apparently forgetting about the video camera that was rolling.

“Yes, we did but I had no idea at the time who you were. I just thought you were some pretty, young thing somebody had Rohypnoled and I thought you needed taking care of . . . “ he trailed off.

“You are such a kind man,” she told him.

He pulled back. “No . . . no, I’m not. I’m not a nice person. I’ve done terrible, reprehensible things. You seem to have the oddest ideas about me.”

“What? That you’re not some sort of beast. That you’re really a very good man – underneath all that bluster and cynicism and . . . .” she stopped. He was rolling his eyes and shaking his head.

“You have entirely the wrong idea about me,” he tried to dissuade her, but she just sat, smiling at him.

“I’m not a nice man,” he insisted. “I had every intention of exploiting you when we met in Asheville and I realized who you were. I was going to do a blistering exposé and hold up your private, personal life for everyone to see. And dearie, if you hadn’t been a princess, I can promise you that I would have most certainly made some moves on you – more than just those few little kisses we had on the street and in the garage. Hell, I thought about doing more, even knowing who you were.”

“But you didn’t. You did the right thing, instead,” she reminded him.

He closed his eyes _hopeless_ and swallowed. He took a deep breath. “Enough about me. Regina sent me some questions she thought our viewers would want to have answered.” He backtracked through his ever-present little notebook. _Yeah, here were Regina’s questions_. He looked at the princess and then back at the pad.

“Princess, in modern times what purpose does a monarch serve?”

She sat up and began, “It is an archaic construct and connecting it to today’s values . . . .”

Their interview continued for twenty minutes. When it was over, he turned off the video and ushered her out of his room, checking the hallway first to be sure it was clear before letting her out. There had been a moment when she had stood next to him, both them so aware of the other, both of them standing still, awkwardly, hesitating. Gold closed his eyes and and stepped back. Somehow, he managed to restrain himself and not put his hands on her _although he wanted nothing more than to kiss her good night – oh hell, he wanted much more than to kiss her goodnight._

He returned to his camera and ran through the recording.

He was thoroughly disgusted.

This was the worst interview he had ever done.

Her answers were clearly scripted, rehearsed and vetted. He didn’t get a genuine thing from her the entire time – well, except for that raw bit when she reminded him that they had spent the night together in Asheville. Editing could make that comment look pretty tawdry if he were ever so inclined.  

He dropped on his bed, irritated as much with himself as with the princess. He was better than this, so much better. He’d just allowed himself to accept her sappy little answers like some junior starry-eyed reporter.

Where was his intensive follow-up questioning? Why hadn’t he gone in for blood on some of these issues? Why hadn’t he asked the ‘hard’ questions?

_Oh hell, he knew why. He somehow, in the blackness of his soul, had found some sliver of feelings. They had sparked to life around the lovely princess and he . . . he now had genuine feelings for her. Some lascivious, for sure, but some were warm and fuzzy. He could well imagine her maintaining a chic city apartment that he would return to between assignments, returning to a warm welcome. Shit, if he were fantasizing he might as well make it a hot welcome -- in her bed. He could imagine her trudging out on assignment with him and them arguing that it was too dangerous for her. He could see her editing his latest book or sitting in the green room waiting for him, while he went on camera to be interviewed by other correspondents._

_Yeah, he could see her in his world._

_He just couldn’t see himself in hers._

**The Princess’s Bedroom**

Belle lay in her own bed.

He had almost kissed her.

Again.

She had wanted him to kiss her. She had sooo wanted him to kiss her. She had wanted him to take her in his arms and thoroughly, deeply kiss her.

And drag her into his bed and . . .

Ravish her – whatever that entailed.

She was pretty sure he was capable of ravishing her, probably capable of a couple of ravishings.

She also realized that she was being incredibly selfish.

She’d researched the reporter after returning to the hotel in Asheville. It wasn’t hard. He had quite a reputation and was widely recognized as a superior representative of the fourth estate. Recipient of several prestigious awards, he had the reputation of going after difficult stories.

But he’d been injured in a tragic accident, no, not an accident. It was during an Act of War. He’d been the only survivor of an attack and had been seriously injured. From what she could gather, he’d developed some drug dependency problems dealing with the severe pain associated with his injuries, not to mention dealing with a lot of psychological issues that had come out of the attack, all fed by survivor guilt. From what she could glean, he’d just gotten out of rehab and was supposed to be on light duty.

She had begun making phone calls and after several conversations, she had managed to get him assigned to her. She had been afraid that he would be furious.

But she’d had to see him again.

She recognized that she had feelings for the man.

She thought he might, maybe, possibly have feelings for her. _He’d given up his big story on her, returning all his video and all the pictures he’d taken. It would have been mortifyingly embarrassing if he’d published, but . . . he hadn’t._

_Wouldn’t that mean he had some feelings for her?_

Oh yes, she knew, he was entirely unsuitable for her. As he’d said – he was divorced. There was the drug thing. And his age – he was probably twice her age, well, maybe twice her age.

But he was also intriguing and she knew, deep down, that he was a thoroughly decent man. _At least, she believed that. She had to believe that._

As much as anything else, it was his intelligence that had attracted her. So many of the royals of her acquaintance were such dolts. She knew she could never bind herself to a dolt.

Months ago, her father had sighed and had said he’d support any marriage decision she made, but then he had thrown dolt after dolt in her path. He really wanted her to marry and start producing an heir and a spare, at least.  

But now Belle was realizing that she was in serious, serious trouble. She was falling in love with someone totally inappropriate.

**Boston – The Descent**

Boston – he used to like the town, but he wasn’t sure he’d ever want to go back there now.

Now, there were too many memories.

Belle, at the brewery, whispering in his ear that the Brown Ale was now her favorite as it was the color of his eyes. And then, she’d tipped her tongue into his ear _and he’d nearly wet himself._

Belle, oh god, eating a hot dog at the ballpark. He’d gotten several near-pornographic shots of her, one of her licking the mustard off the hot dog and another one with her sliding half the hot dog, bun and all, into her mouth at one time. _These shots were definitely NSFW._

Belle, his sweet, innocent Belle had managed a little more tongue-action when, later in the day, she ate the Philly cheese steak. It was a typically messy sandwich and the cheese had dripped down the side of her mouth. In hindsight, it hadn’t been his smartest move, but he’d signaled her that she had cheese on her chin. She held her face out to him and he’d gently scooped it off with a finger. She’d then taken his finger into her mouth and sucked off the cheese not breaking eye contact. _He’d thought he was going to disgrace himself right then and there._

And then Belle, that evening, had eaten a lobster, using her hands, her fingers, to attack the difficult crustacean. She nimbly caressed and then expertly pulled the tail and claws off and cracked the shells, removing the meat. _He couldn’t help but imagine those competent little fingers caressing his . . . No! Don’t go there!_ She did use one of the little forks to dip the meat into the warmed butter and then her face betrayed a sensuous joy at the succulent treat _and he was transported into a fantasy as to how she would look post-orgasm – it would have to be similar_.

Belle took no pity on him, taking the walking legs, snapping them in half and then sucking out the meat. Every time her mouth closed down on one of the lobster parts, well, he’d never look at lobster the same way again.

Stupid man that he was, he’d thought he’d have a reprieve sitting in the darkened concert hall but Belle was sitting next to him. He’d thought her dress was cut far too low and now, from his seating vantage, he was just high enough above her that he had a full view of the top half of her delightfully plump breasts. The necklace he’d given her dipped down almost, almost into her cleavage. The dress was held up by the tiniest excuses for straps. _Damn._ He heard nothing whatever of the concert, instead intent on hoping one of the straps would fail in its mission and she would be revealed – _but just to him, he wouldn’t want any other men ogling her_. He sunk into a fantasy of exactly how she would feel resting in his hand, soft, tender flesh, yielding, molding to the pressure of his palm, his fingers. And then, teased by his fingertips, the nipple would pebble under his thumb and rise pouting, begging for his mouth.

The next thing he realized was that she was leaning over to him, both of them still in their seats in the darkened concert hall, her arm somehow now entwined in his. _Oh Lord Jesus, he could feel the soft pressure of her breast pressing into his arm._ “Do you think we could get coffee and some of that Boston crème pie somewhere after this is over?” she’d asked in a throaty whisper.

_He couldn’t refuse her anything._ “Sure.” _Yeah, this was just what his libido needed – watching her eat soft cake with creamy pudding in the middle and a chocolate glaze on the top – no way she’d be able to make that into a sensual experience._

 

**The White House – Bottoming Out**

And then, there had been the White House.

The place had been swarming with Treasury Agents. He’d been pulled aside _as he’d predicted_ but Belle had stamped her little foot in a fit of pique and, abruptly, all had been resolved. He had really tried to remain in the background for this activity, even offered to stay back at the hotel. Of course, Cora had made every effort to have him sit at her table, but he’d ended up next to the Princess and across from the President. He had promised her he would behave and was determined to keep his mouth shut. He’d been a thorn in the side of what was it now? four presidents, asking provocative questions, badgering, hammering away at issues and he sooo wanted to go after this guy, but somehow _because it would have embarrassed her_ he’d managed to keep his mouth shut _. He felt he had crossed over the border from Purgatory into Hell._

He was somehow holding it together, with every appearance of being cool and calm, until the entrée, when he felt a little foot, _pretty sure it was the same little foot that had just been stamped_ work its way up his trouser leg. She somehow managed to keep her face implacable and focused on the conversation around her. He had just managed to keep his attention on his plate.

_If there hadn’t been so many people, so many cameras there, with them, he would have considered dragging her into the Lincoln bedroom and . . . something._

 

And so, it had been afterward, back at the hotel, when she had tapped on his door, coming into his hotel room ready for their usual interview session, that he had vented, or perhaps more accurately, lost it.

She’d come in wearing the usual bathrobe over her “interview outfit” and had dropped the robe. She was, as ever, bright-eyed and bubbly.

His reaction had surprised them both. He’d just grabbed her and pushed her up against the wall, kissing her, pressing against her against the wall, pulling on the silk blouse, exploding buttons, tearing fabric. She was kissing him back, he was pretty sure, her hands desperately holding onto his arms, one of her legs coming up to wrap around him. He was losing any semblance of self-control around the wench, princess or no, and something would have to give.

_He could have her, he knew he could have her. She’d fall on the bed for him, he knew it. She thought she was in love with him – he knew it. She’d never said it, but he knew it._

_He could take all that she was offering, take every advantage._

But that would be wrong.

Somehow reaching deep within himself, he reluctantly stepped away from her.

“Perhaps, an interview session tonight would not be . . . “ he glanced at her blouse with the tear and the missing buttons _no way they could do the interview – like his head was in any place to talk._ “You need to go back to your bedroom,” he’d told her. “Now.”

And, much to his surprise, his stubborn, determined little princess had nodded in agreement.

If she hadn’t . . . would he even still be with her?

If she had . . . would he even still be with her?

_Why couldn’t he just take what she was offering? What they both wanted? Maybe then, he’d be able to move on._

_He knew, he knew about her feelings, but he knew he had his own share of feelings. And his feelings were deep, real feelings. He knew he didn’t just want a quick fuck – that he could have gotten with Countess Cora. He had respect and real caring for Belle and a fritz-bang up against a wall of a hotel – no matter how nice the hotel – no matter how nice the fritz-bang might be -- was not what he wanted – not enough, not nearly enough._

_Oh, he should have left that night, before they got on the plane to Paris. He should have ended it. He had enough, all pink and gooey fluff but still enough, to make up some kind of hodge-podge report. There were reams of stuff on her childhood, her relationship with her mother, her father, her hopes, her dreams, her vision of the future. He should have ended it that night, let her go on to Paris on her own. He knew, to continue on, like this, they were both going to get hurt._

But he had gotten on the plane to Paris.    


	8. Paris

He was sitting by himself in the café when he got the phone call.

“Well?”

It was Regina.

“Yeah?” he responded.

“Aren’t you finished yet?  I mean, how long does it take to interview a princess?  She can’t possibly have that much going on.”

“Well, she’s actually got a lot going on,” he defended his Belle. “There’s a lot of charity work she’s connected with, literacy projects, children’s issues, women’s rights . . .”

“Bullshit.  You aren’t writing for the society column of _Ladies Home Journal_. You’re a top-notch investigative reporter. You were supposed to be getting the real nitty-gritty – who she’s made out with, how bad her cramps are during her period, what she does with herself when the cameras are off – not some puff piece I could have sent anyone out to do.  You’ve had ten fucking days and . . .” Regina stopped.

He didn’t say anything.

“Holy shit, I just figured it out!” Regina seemed astonished. “You rat bastard you. You got the stuff the first go-round but . . . you couldn’t go through with it.  You got too close.  You like her, really like her.”

“She’s a nice person,” he tried to downplay it.

“You had something that first time, but you liked her too much to publish.  I’ve never known you to cave to your feelings – hell, I’ve never known you to _have_ feelings – not real human feelings -- maybe crocodile feelings. Oh, you poor bastard.”

“Listen, Regina, this type of interview is difficult for me – I’m used to dealing with hardened criminal types, terrorists, government officials –  but she’s . . . she’s so damn nice, it’s hard for me . . . fuck,” he swore. 

“Not buying it. Sure, you do your best work with the assholes, but I know you’ve interviewed nice people before and had them spread out weeping on the dissecting table before you were finished with them.”  Regina softened her tone, “You like her, don’t you?”

There was a long pause before he answered. “She’s nice,” was all he could admit to. 

“Shall I do what I can toward getting you called home?” His boss was being unexpectedly kind. “I’m sure there’s a crisis somewhere in the world that could use your particular skills and insights.”

He considered. _He wasn’t going anywhere, couldn’t go anywhere with a relationship with the princess. He was spinning his wheels. If she’d been anyone else, he would have simply had an affair with her, flamed out and moved on, but he couldn’t do that with the princess. No, there was no chance at having any kind of relationship, certainly not any relationship that had a future._

“That sounds like a good idea,” he told Regina. “A really good idea. And I’ll see what I can do with the information I’ve gotten, but I warn you, it’s a cotton candy factory – all sweetness and light.”

“All right then. We’ll keep in touch.”

He hung up determined to enjoy his espresso but he caught a glimpse of a man, at least one man, skulking behind the adjacent building.

_Another one of the scum bags who thought he was a news story._

He had to acknowledge the irony of it all. He’d spent his life pursuing people, intruding into their lives and trying to get pictures and stories and now . . . he was the one being pursued, getting his picture taken. However, these guys were scum. He had always had standards. He had never climbed a tree to get a picture of someone in their bedroom – or bathroom. He’d never intruded on their family life, certainly not when children were involved.

All right, he had to admit, so he hadn’t always been forthcoming that he was a reporter when he was trying to get a story. But that had only been that one time and, well, he could just look around to see how karma was making him pay for that one indiscretion.

He took another drink of his delightfully sharp and smoky coffee – so much better than the charred creosol brew he’d been getting.

“Where’s the princess?” the reporter who had been sneaking around called out to him. No, not reporter, a reporter was better than this. This was a tattletale stringer.

Gold considered responding, but he knew it would be like getting into a pissing contest with a skunk.

“Is her father all right with her screwing a boofer?”

 _This was harder to ignore._ He knew the guy was trying to get a reaction from him and, likely, there were more turds with cameras lying in the bushes. He finished his coffee and got up to go. The man got in his way.

“Come on, Gold. You’ve fallen into quite the little cuny hole here. Share some with a fellow reporter.”

He stopped and debated. He could take this clown down with one swipe of his cane . . . and then go after the camera. But it could end up on the front page of some, maybe several, papers. Hell, somebody out there would probably get video and it would end up on the six o’clock.

He made eye contact and spoke quietly to the man, “Would you step into the alley with me?”

“Uhmmm,” the man stepped back from him. “Hell no.”

“And why is that?” he asked softly.

“Because you’d clean my clock and trash my camera.”

Gold smiled at the man. “Just so.” Then, just with a look, Gold was able to get the man to step aside. Livid but feeling impotent about the situation, Gold made it back to the hotel, going in a special back entrance the hotel had set aside for the princess’s people to come and go without too much hoopla.

**A Busy Afternoon**

Belle was defying her security detail again. Even he had argued on their behalf but the strong-willed young woman had won out.

She wanted to go out on the town. The plan was for her to disguise herself, for him to accompany her and for security to tail them. 

He had to agree that her disguise was excellent. She had put on a long blonde wig and wore dark glass frames. Then she’d put on a loose frock that made her look as if she might be twenty pounds heavier than she was. She wore plain, comfortable walking shoes and black tights. She had managed to transform herself into the arch-type deep-thinking existential free maid who worked in any of the St Germaine bookstores they ended up walking to. Among so many other locations, they had made an obligatory pilgrimage to the location of the original Shakespeare and Company bookstore.

They had then settled in a little bistro for a late lunch, taking their time. He was still getting pictures but he didn’t feel comfortable thinking of this as an interview session – it felt too much like a date. On general alert, he couldn’t help but notice a young blond man at the next table who kept looking closely at them.

“Has my wig slipped off?” Belle asked him, noting the man’s scrutiny.

“So, you noticed him too?” Gold turned his head away from the young man. “You look fine. I was wondering if I had a snot bubble or something.”

They both focused on the menus when the waiter returned to get their orders.  As soon as the waiter left, the young man came over to them.

“Forgive me, your highness,” he whispered. “I’m one of your people and I . . . when I recognized Monsieur Gold -- I know him from the tabloids that he is often with you -- I was able to recognize you. I could not pass up the opportunity to meet you, to speak with you.”

_Well crap! They had not thought to disguise Gold. He may have very well jeopardized Belle’s safety. He began looking around for a quick exit._

“Tell me your name, please,” she asked the young man, offering her hand.

“I’m Will, Will Redhue. I’m a student here in Paris,” he told her shaking her hand, nearly gushing.

“Why don’t you join us?” she asked him. And to Gold’s consternation, the young man sat down. Will and Belle were soon engaged in a conversation about things going on in the homeland and then Gold watched as Belle drew the young man out. He was a student at the Sorbonne, studying Communications. And yes, he was engaged, but there had been trouble with his girlfriend.

Within a half hour, Belle was listening to the young man like she was his sister. He was pouring his heart out to her, telling her his life’s story, all the while Gold switched on his recorder and watched the windows and doors. _Damn, he’d thought as he listened to Belle talk with young Will -- perhaps she should have been a reporter. She was certainly good at getting people to talk._

But then he saw them, one of them the same man who had approached him while he’d drank his morning espresso.

“We’ve got to get out of here,” he interrupted. “We’ve been spotted.”

“Here, take my scooter,” Will had stood up and handed Gold his keys. “I’ll create a diversion while you go out through the kitchen. It’s the little red one by the back door.”

“Thanks, Will,” Belle told him blowing the young man a kiss right before Gold grabbed her hand and led her out. They could hear a commotion as, apparently, Will tipped over a table and tripped up some of the reporters following them.

They spotted the scooter and mounted it, with Belle riding behind Gold, her arms wrapped tightly around his waist.

It was a wild ride. Gold was apparently fearless and did not hesitate to ride between cars and up onto sidewalks. In short order, they had ditched the reporters.

He eventually pulled up, away from traffic. Belle was clinging to him, her soft body pressed closely up against his. She was laughing, obviously enjoying herself.

“That was exciting,” she told him.

“That was terrifying. This traffic is crazy.”

“You shouldn’t have told me that. I thought you knew what you were doing,” she chastised him.

“Well . . . I did, I do,” he admitted. He looked around. “I think we lost those reporters and . . . yeah, your security detail too. They’ll be on the line with Paris cops looking for us. I need to get you back to the hotel.”

“Let’s do the Eiffel Tower first,” Belle suggested. “Don’t call the security team. Here,” she pulled off the wig. “They’ll be looking for a blonde woman and a scruffy guy in jeans and a tee-shirt.”

“The Eiffel Tower?” he asked. He sighed and pulled out his phone. “Let me see if there are any Skip the Line tickets available.”

She waited. While he was looking over options, he asked her, “What do you mean scruffy?”

“When did you shave last?” she asked him.

“This morning, no, wait. Cora had come by the room and I had to light out, so yesterday, so . . . okay, I guess I am a little scruffy.”

“It’s a nice look for you,” she told him, smiling.

He glared at her but then found what he was looking for and made the purchase.  “Come on. We’ll have to hurry to get our place.”

At the Tower, they held hands as they ascended the elevator and listened to the tour guide regale them history and esoteric details. They looked at the lines to the summit and were told there was a two-hour wait, so, they decided to just enjoy the wonderful views from the second story.

It was an hour later when they descended.

“We need to get back to the hotel. Your people will be worried about you,” he told her as they made their way back to the little scooter.

“Yes,” she agreed but stopped him before he got on the scooter. “I just wanted to let you know that . . . it’s been wonderful. When I’m out with you, I get to be just Belle. I get to visit little book stores in Paris, eat at restaurants that nobody’s ever heard of, ride a motor scooter, even go to the Eiffel Tower without everyone following me and taking pictures and expecting me to be so perfect. I love being out with you. I love spending time with you. I . . . “

He stopped her, putting his finger on her mouth. “Belle.” He shook his head but didn’t say anything more and the two just looked at each other. He broke it off first, “We do need to get back.”

“Yes, I guess we do,” she agreed reluctantly.

As she climbed on the scooter behind him, she heard him, right before he cranked up the motor, “I love being out with you, too. And the spending time thing.”

 

He got her back to the hotel much to the relief of her people. Belle made arrangements to return the little scooter back to the helpful Will Redhue, along with a profuse thank you letter.

Gold had gone to his room to shave and shower before ordering supper in his room, refusing to answer the door. He turned off his lights and sat in his bed reading from his e-reader. There were several knocks, but he didn’t answer any of them after the first one, which was room service bringing his supper and, even for that one, he peeked out to be sure it really was room service.

He kept hoping Regina would call to let him know he had a new assignment. Hell, at this point, he’d take the Dog Show. But . . . there was no call. Whether Regina was turned down or . . . or what, he never got a call to go on another assignment.

**Guilt**

Belle really did feel guilty.  Right before they were called out to the car to go to the airport for the flight home, she’d gotten the call. Rumple’s network wanted him to go out on another assignment – some trouble with a suspected terror cell in Belgium. 

But she had suggested they find someone else.  She felt that she and her reporter still had more to go over, especially some things happening in her home country and some things she really wanted to share about her own plans regarding the monarchy.  They should be finished soon, really, they should – and then, of course, then he could go on his way. She really wanted him to remain on assignment with her for the time being.

And they couldn’t turn down her royal request.

But now she felt guilty.  She should be letting him get back to his life. 

She realized that if she had been anyone else, they could have had a heated affair and then moved on, but because of her position . . .

It just wasn’t fair.  She was not one to usually complain about the restrictions her position placed on her, recognizing that she also had access to many, many advantages. 

But when it came to personal relationships – she had nothing. 

She had watched him as he interacted with all the other court types.  He was often adept, observing, mimicking, adapting, but, other times, many other times, he would fall back into his sardonic scornful persona, ridiculing, mocking the mannerisms and protocol of court life. And he hadn’t even got to the formal court yet. She kept trying to picture him in the royal setting . . .  and she kept coming up wanting. 

Would he ever . . . ?  How could he . . . ? Court life . . . ?  she didn’t see him meshing in with court life. As much as she wanted him to mesh, to fit, this wasn’t who the man was. 

And she had fallen in love with _all_ of the man, the shining intelligence, the clever, sardonic wit, the canny survivor, even the bitter cynic who believed the worst of people, who’d seen people at their worst. So many of these aspects would not, would never fit into court life.  

How could she ask him to change?

Yet she couldn’t stop hoping something would change – perhaps if not him . . . then something else . . . _dare she think it, perhaps, perhaps -- she could be the one to change_. 

She also knew that part of the reason she wanted Rumple to come back to her home, was to introduce him to her father.  She thought there was a chance the two might get on – they were both smart and, she hoped, cared about her.  Her father had a wicked sense of humor as did her intrepid reporter – the two also had that in common. If her father could accept Rumple, that opened the door . . . for what?

She nearly cried – oh, it was hopeless. 

_She kept trying to envision Rumple sitting by her side in the role of royal consort, opening auto factories, presiding over the Folketing, attending state dinners -- but there was always something askew.  He wasn’t dressed right, or he was snarky with the legislators or he was using the wrong fork or something.  He didn’t fit into her world and no matter how hard she tried to imagine him, she couldn’t make it work.  He would stride through her fantasy, larger than life, and more often than not, just carry her off to the bedroom._

_Maybe . . . maybe she should just try seducing the man.  Would that get him out of her blood?_

_That sounded like a plan, but, well . . . did she have any idea how to go about seducing this worldly, experienced man?_

Cora was sitting by her in the car, now nearly at the airport.

“My dear,” Cora began and Belle startled as the woman interrupted her naughty thoughts. She cringed.  _She knew something was up._

“You and the reporter, this Mr. Gold,” Cora continued.  “He’s an interesting man.”  Cora was watching her and Belle momentarily felt like a rabbit in a trap. 

“He is,” she agreed.

“Experienced . . . worldly, wouldn’t you say?” Cora asked her. 

“He’s had an interesting career,” Belle cautiously agreed.

“I understand that he has been married and divorced . . . and has a son,” Cora was still talking. “A son about your age.”

“Yes, I’m aware of that.”  _Did Cora think she didn’t know this?  That she would be shocked?_

“And there’s an unfortunate history of drug problems,” Cora added.

“Yes, he encountered some problems with opioid dependency after a serious injury – the one that damaged his leg,” Belle offered.  “He got treatment and is now in recovery.”

“Much older than you, too.  No doubt used to the company of . . . mature, experienced women,” Cora speculated.

“Oh, I suspect . . . possibly.  But he can certainly afford younger prostitutes if he’s so inclined,” Belle couldn’t stop herself.  She’d hit the mark, noting that Cora stiffened.

Cora quit dancing around the topic. “I think you need to send Mr. Gold back, my dear – the tabloids are beginning to pick up that he’s your constant companion and, I’m sure it’s just been by chance, but they have caught some rather compromising photographs of the two of you together.” And sure enough, Cora had several sample newspapers on hand to back up her point.

Belle glanced at one of the scandal rags.  It was a full-page picture of herself and Rumple holding hands and gazing into each other’s eyes.  It looked like they were a couple.  The headline had read _The Princess and the Reporter_ – it wasn’t a particularly creative paper.

She knew where that picture had come from. It was an official picture opp and Rumple had been waiting for her in the wings after she’d done her usual _what had he called it? Dog and Pony Show._  He knew how these things stressed her out and had been there to greet her as she walked away from the stage. He’d had some of her favorite orange infused water and had taken her hand just to let her know that he’d been thinking about her, a kind gesture. Somebody with a long-range lens had caught them right at the moment he’d taken her hand and it looked, well, it looked like they were holding hands.

Belle sighed. She knew there had been some other pictures, some outright salacious. One of them showed his hand on her hip as they were walking in some garden, another showed him looking at her with so much heat while they shared coffee at some little bistro. Speculation about her relationship with the intrepid reporter was spewing out . . . and not just the blue tabloids, but even, sometimes, the respectable press.

She couldn’t continue to subject him to this rot _especially since it wasn’t really rot.  But Belle was a young woman in love and she had enjoyed the walks, the coffee, the everything, they had gotten to do together._

_And she was a young woman who was hopelessly in love – with someone that she could never expect to be with._

She had cut Cora off, “Well, I’m sure the interview will be over soon and Mr. Gold will be returning to . . . wherever he’s got to go.”

“That would be best. I mean, dear, a relationship with this type of individual, a man who knows the seediest side of life, who consorts with all sorts of disreputable people, who has all these other issues – well,” Cora finished up smugly. “Surely you can see such a relationship has absolutely no future.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Belle began. “He’s intelligent, can be charming and he strikes me as being very capable – someone who can handle himself in a crisis – sounds like perfect consort material to me.”

Cora blinked and regrouped. “Princess, you’re just starting to get out into the world and you know, you’ve been sheltered.  I can tell you that he’s the kind of man who amuses himself with women. I couldn’t imagine him capable of remaining faithful to one woman.”

“Really?” Belle responded. _What was Cora’s game? Was Cora trying to protect her? Or was there something else going on?_

_Rumple had made several odd comments regarding Cora – she assumed he thought of Cora as over-bearing. The woman did have a certain reputation. But . . .  did Cora have designs on her reporter?_

“I guess I’ll have to be careful,” Belle said finally.

And now she was on a plane to Avonleigh sitting across from her disgruntled reporter.

Did he suspect her role in keeping him around?

_Probably, the man was brilliant._

He gave her his crooked smile. “How soon will we be in Freedonia . . . uh . . . Avonleigh?” he asked.


	9. Gasping for Air

Home, at last, in Avonleigh, Belle rode in the cavalcade from the airport back into town. There was the expected crowd to greet them as they entered town, riding on the wide road to the palace, and Belle, ever so glad to be home, rolled down her window to wave exuberantly to the cheering, welcoming crowds.

Her father would be waiting at the palace and she really wanted to see him again, couldn’t wait to see him again. After her mother’s death, she had gotten closer to her father – they had been drawn together by their mutual loss. Her father had always wanted the best for her but still wanted to make decisions for her – a typical father. But he genuinely cared about her, loved her. 

There was to be a quiet family dinner that evening, and then, well at some point, she would have to introduce him to Rumple. She’d like to tell her father about her feelings for the irascible reporter, but realized that she probably should share her feelings with said reporter first. Rumple had told her over and over that they could never have any relationship, but all that was because of the age thing, and the drug thing, and the divorce thing. If those things weren’t there, she wondered if he would want a relationship with her?

King Maurice hugged his daughter when she ran into the family quarters. He looked frailer than he had when she had left on the world tour. 

“Daddy, I missed you so much,” Belle told him, continuing to hold his hands even as they pulled apart from the hug.

“I missed you too, Belle, darling. You . . . why you look different,” his sharp eyes caught that something had changed in his daughter.

“It’s the hair, I’m sure,” she explained.

“No. It’s like you’ve changed, like you’ve grown up. You’re a young woman now, my daughter.”

“Oh daddy,” she nearly broke down. “I met this man.” _So much for a conversation with Rumple before telling her father._

Her father guided her to a seat and they sat down next to each other. “Tell me all about it,” he directed her kindly. 

“Well, he’s brilliant and handsome and responsible and well-respected,” she began.

“But?” King Maurice could tell there was a problem.

“He’s a bit older than me,” she shared.

“I was twelve years older than your mother. It was never a problem,” he told her.

“And he has a bit of a past,” she began.

“Is he a criminal?”

“Oh no. He fights on the side of justice and truth . . . a lot,” Belle told him. Her father nodded solemnly.

“So, what’s in his past that’s so troubling?” he asked his daughter, his concern for her reflected in his face.

“Well, he got married very young and the marriage didn’t work out,” Belle confessed in a burst.

“So, he’s divorced.” Her father considered, then finally said, “Of course, people have become much more accepting of divorce nowadays.”

 _Whew, so those issues had been taken care of._ “He’s also been ill.” She began to broach the drug abuse history. “He was in a war and everyone in his little group was killed. He was seriously injured and, while recovering from some serious injuries, he . . . he developed . . . uh . . . a little drug problem, prescription stuff. He’s been through rehab and is no longer addicted,” she finished brightly.

“So, he’s a recovering drug addict,” Maurice noted. “Are you in love with him?” he asked.

“Oh yes, Daddy. I’m so very much in love with him. But . . . but I don’t even know, I don’t know for sure that he loves me.” _Darn, she could already feel the tears seeping up. And she’d promised herself she wouldn’t cry._

“Well,” her father told her. “Perhaps you need to find that out before you decide anything else.” Her father sighed, “Belle, my darling girl, love, true love, is rare. If you’ve found it with someone, go after it. I was lucky, so lucky to find your mother, although, perhaps I should say, she found me. I cherish every moment I had with her. My biggest regret is only that I didn’t have more time with her. I could never deny you, deny anyone, that kind of happiness.”

“Oh, thank you, Daddy.” Belle reached over and hugged her father. “Now that I know that you’ll be all right with me being with him, even though he’s got all this history . . . well, I’ll find out if he wants to be with me. He’s been putting me off, you know, because I’m a royal princess, and he keeps telling me that he’s inappropriate for me.”

Belle finished her supper with her father and went onto bed in her own room. She was excited. Maybe, maybe something could work out for her. She decided to go and talk with Rumple. She surveyed her wardrobe. _Maybe tonight, maybe, she should, maybe, she could . . ._ _._

Belle rifled through her lingerie drawer, then her closet. She had a plethora of silk nightgowns, beautiful lacey things, long and flowing. She rejected them. She needed something else, something, well, something, _dare she think it,_ yes, something sexy.  Buried deep in the drawer, buried because she had rejected the garment for being too cheap, even tawdry. It was a two-piece ensemble consisting of a breath of red silk obligated together with black lace. It barely covered the bottoms of her breasts, lifting them up and pushing them together, and it didn’t really cover her plump little butt cheeks, just gracing by them. She put it on and blushed. _Maybe she should have kept searching to find something more . . . virginal._  

No, no, she was going to do this. She was going to confront her reporter, confess her feelings and draw a line in the sand. She was going to do her very best to seduce the man.

She nodded at her reflection and slipped on her heavy bathrobe to go to his room. 

**Gold’s Rooms**

Gold was looking around his rooms, _rooms he noted, not room_. Another set of scrumptious diggings. This trailing after a royal princess certainly had some perks.  The accommodations were always first rate. Not to mention the food was usually pretty yummy.

It was just the boring activities and arse-numbing speeches he had to suffer through. No wonder Belle had gone bonkers when she was in Asheville. He was surprised anyone could manage this kind of life for any amount of time. 

He stripped down to his underwear and was sitting on his bed, playing Angry Birds on his phone when there was a knock on the door.

He wondered if it might be the princess – she had become rather fond of coming into his room late at night. He hadn’t set up the interview camera, not expecting her this first night back in her own country.  He thought she’d be catching up with family and friends. He went ahead and slipped on some sleep pants and answered the door. 

It was Cora the Countess. She had taken down her hair and the dark red strands hung down around her shoulders.

“Mr. Gold, may I come in?” she asked, her eyes quickly taking in his dishabille. 

“Uh. . . well, I guess . . .  yeah.” _This probably wasn’t a good idea._

“My understanding is that you’ll be going back to the United States soon,” she came on into his room. He looked her over. She was dressed in a close-fitting black silk robe and, with her long hair down, she looked very different than her usually pinned up and primed daytime counterpart. She was definitely a striking beauty, perhaps a bit passed her prime, but still quite lovely.

“Probably. I haven’t heard anything for sure,” he told her, watching her warily. _He’d had female visitors before, coming to his hotel room._

“Of course, you’ll be sending us your copy before you publish it?” she asked him.

“My editor will be handling all of that,” he told her. “It will be a video report.”

“Uh hum . . . . Fix me a drink?” she asked him.

He nodded and poured her a couple of fingers from the bottle of amber liquid that was sitting on the credenza in his room. He realized that his hands were trembling – _the woman made him nervous_.

_Out in the hallway, Belle had made it to his room and was about to knock on the door when she heard voices. There was his voice, of course, and a woman’s voice.  It sounded like . . . she listened closely . . . it sounded like the Countess._

“Have some yourself?  I don’t like to drink alone,” she told him accepting the glass.

He considered and, perhaps a bit reluctantly, he poured himself a drink. _God knows, he needed one._

“We’re much less scrutinized when we’re here in the royal castle,” she began.

“I didn’t know that,” he told her knocking back half his glass. _He had often thought – privately - that the princess had some pretty damn slack security._

“It’s much more private and the people who work here are known for their discretion,” she continued sipping the potent liquor. When he didn’t say anything, she turned to him directly. “There’s a persistent rumor around -- a rumor that you and the princess are harboring feelings for each other. Is this true?” she asked.

“Me and the princess?” he tried to scoff. _This was dangerous territory . . . and private . . . between himself and the princess._

“Yes, you and the princess. I’ve known her since she was a child and I can tell you, she’s fascinated by you.  She’s been quite sheltered and you’re nothing like any other man she’s ever known. She’s quite smitten.”

“Well, I’m hardly an expert on young women, but I’m given to understand that they are emotionally unstable and prone to having crushes on older men,” he responded as neutrally as he could.

“Oh, I perfectly understand her feelings,” Cora admitted to him. “What I want to know is, if you have any feelings for her.” She had locked eyes with his.

He snorted, “Me? Have feelings for the princess? Countess, she’s a child and a rather spoilt one. I prefer women who are more  . . . worldly.”

“And experienced?” the Countess asked.

“Of course. I’m not particularly interested in teaching some little virgin the ways of the world,” he told her.

Cora dropped her robe. She was dressed in a piece of exotic underwear, solid black silk, cinched and form-fitting  – one that left very little to the imagination. She was quite splendid looking and he couldn’t help but suck in his breath. She continued, “I know quite a bit about the ways of the world.” In a husky whisper, she added, “And I like men.”

He put the drink aside. He blinked and, after a moment, he swallowed. He struggled to make a response, _any response._ “And I’m sure men are more than willing to meet you halfway.”

_Outside, Belle had heard enough. She turned and blinded by the insistent tears that were flowing from her eyes, she moved clumsily, intending to make her way back to her own room, but in her haste, clumsy girl that she was, she ran into one of the tables set in the hallway. She made quite a noise._

Gold heard the noise. “What was that?” He was immediately on high alert, having worked much of his time in life-threatening situations.

“A cat or some stupid servant,” Cora told him, irritated that there had been a distraction.

Gold went out into the hallway and . . .  he didn’t see anyone, but he caught a whiff of a very distinctive perfume – roses and vanilla. 

_Oh shit!_

_Belle moved as quickly and as silently as she could and made her way back to her own room. She didn’t start really crying until she had shut her bedroom door behind herself._

_Of course, he wasn’t really interested in her. The Countess, with all her experience and skills and talents, was more his type. Of course, he was going to take advantage of what the Countess was offering._

_Why would he be interested in her, in what she could offer him? She was a girl, an inexperienced, stupid girl._

She flung herself on her bed.

 

Gold returned to his room and brusquely handed Cora her robe. “I’m sorry. I have an important errand to run.”

“Another time?” she asked, slipping on the covering.

He hesitated, “I . . . I don’t think so. I’m flattered, you understand. But I  . . . I’m not interested, at the moment.” And he headed out of the room. 

He stopped the first servant he came to. _Where was the princess’s bedroom?_

It took several servants and several sets of directions for him to make his way to her bedroom. He was stopped by massive double doors. He pounded on them. 

“Belle! Belle! I need to talk to you!”

Belle heard him. _Likely everyone on the hallway heard him._

“Go away,” she told him through the door. 

“I need to talk to you,” he insisted. 

“Go away,” she repeated.

“You’ll have to call the guards and have me bodily carried off. Belle, I need to see you. I can shout through the door or I can come in and talk with you quietly.”

Belle considered. She slipped off the bed and wiped her tears away. She cracked open the door.

“What do you have to say?” she sniffed, keeping her voice very quiet.

“I didn’t invite the Countess into my room, well, actually I did . . . but I didn’t invite her into my bed. I was trying to convince her that I wasn’t interested in you. And . . . I . . . I sent her away.”

Belle didn’t say anything. She sniffed. She bit her lower lip. “And you’re telling me this . . . because?” she asked.

“Because I’m in love with you,” he said, surprising himself as much as he was surprising her.

“What?!”

“I love you.” _It was easier the second time._ “I don’t know that we can ever . . . that there can be . . . “ he floundered.

Belle reached out and pulled him into her bedroom. She flung her arms around him. “Do you really love me?” she asked. _After what she had heard . . ._

“Yeah, I think you might have heard me saying some things to Cora that . . . well, she came to my room and I probably shouldn’t have allowed her in and then I was trying to make her believe that there was nothing between us and I realized that you had heard some of the crap I’d said and . . . it was important I tell you how I really feel,” he finished lamely.

Belle realized she was crying again. He was holding her and gently raised her face to his.

“You’re crying?”

“Yes, because I’m an idiot. You know, you must know, I love you too, but I didn’t think you . . . had . . . the same . . .  feelings,” she told him. “Since we kissed in Asheville, before we went into the craft fair – I’ve been feeling these feelings – and the feelings have just kept growing and getting bigger and stronger.”

“Yeah, me too,” he admitted using his thumb to wipe away her tears. Her robe had fallen open and he caught a glimpse of the red and black confection she was wearing.

He frowned, “Belle, you were wearing this when you came over to my room?” He was gently sliding the robe off her shoulders.

She nodded.

He sucked in his breath. _This was more riské than the outfit the Countess had been wearing  . . . and it was even more alluring because it was his Belle that was wearing it._ “You know this is not an appropriate outfit to wear to a man’s bedroom.  What were you thinking? It makes it look like you wanted to . . .” He stopped talking and closed his eyes. _Oh, sweet merciful heavens, he knew what she had been wanting to do._

“Too much?” she asked him in a tiny voice.

He hesitated only a moment but then he shook his head and pulled her into his arms. “It’s just right and . . . I want to kiss you.”

She eagerly nodded and stood on her tiptoes. She pursed her lips.

He smiled and shook his head. “Not like that. Like we did in the parking garage in Asheville.  Just relax and open your mouth a little.” He cupped her face with one of his hands, tilting it back just so. He rested the other hand on her shoulder and gently pulled her in.

Belle complied and she felt his mouth on hers, his lips on hers and it was hot and sweet. He tilted her a bit to the side and began to apply pressure, supporting her head and holding her up and close to him. His hand drifted from her shoulder, down her arm, holding her close.

It was . . . exhilarating.  For both of them.  This was so much more than what they had shared together in Asheville clinging to each other in the darkened parking garage.  She’d been a little tipsy at that time and very, very emotional.  But, at this moment, she felt very, very alert and alive.  She felt every nuance, the movement of his lips, his tongue as he tentatively explored first the lining of her lips and then slipping in to touch her tongue.  This was so, so much more than anything they had shared together in Asheville. 

They briefly pulled apart and their eyes locked.

“Belle, perhaps . . . perhaps I should go,” he began.

“Please stay,” she begged him and he groaned.  He didn’t want to go.  He wanted to stay even though he knew it was wrong.

_He was not the right man for her._

They came back together in a harsh hungry kiss, both of them wanting more from the other.  Belle felt dizzy and hot and nearly on fire. _The man was consuming her._   Gold felt . . . he felt like he had finally found the one woman who could understand him, care for him, love him.  He wanted her so badly, so much.They briefly pulled apart, both of them, gasping for air.  Belle stood on her tiptoes and kissed him gently on the chin.  She dropped her eyes and then slowly pulled him toward her bed.


	10. Protection

Belle had slowly begun to pull him toward her bed.

And now, they were standing by her bed, her big, plump, soft-white fluffy cloud of a bed.

“Belle, Belle, my beautiful Belle. Are you sure? Absolutely sure?” he had to ask.

“I am absolutely sure,” she told him. “I want you. You’re the right man for me.”

He felt amazed.

He felt that she had put him on a pedestal and honored him so much more than he deserved, than he would ever deserve.

_If he’d been half the honorable man she thought he was, he would have bowed out long ago, but he just couldn’t leave her now._

He pulled her down so that they were sitting on the bed and slowly he began to slip her heavy bathrobe down her arms. He leaned in to plant a gentle kiss on the top of her shoulder.

“Shall we take this off?” he asked, tugging on the robe. “I want to kiss you and touch you and this is in the way.”

She licked her lips and nodded, shrugging her arms out of the thick robe.

He kissed her along her neck. “I remember that very first night we spent together. You asked for a green silk gown with rosebuds,” he told her, speaking softly.

“You remember that?” she was surprised.

“I told you, I remember everything you ever said,” he told her still planting little kisses up her shoulder, her neck, her chin. “Well, except the boring speech stuff.”

She giggled, “And instead of a gown, I slept in one of your shirts,” she finished. “It was sooo much better than any green silk gown with rosebuds.”

“You still have that shirt,” he reminded her.

“I have set that shirt aside. Did you know that? It hangs separately in my closet, apart from all the other clothes.”

“Perhaps you’ll wear it again for me, sometime?” he asked in a whisper.

“Anytime,” she told him and followed up with a purred promise, “I’ll wear just the shirt for you.”

“Uhmmm, imagining you in my shirt and nothing else. Very pleasant,” he murmured. And he began to seriously focus his kisses on her ear lobe, eliciting little shivers from the woman.

“You are so perfect,” he told her. “So perfect.” And he ghosted his hands along her body, touching her breasts, her waist, down to her hips.

Belle was just as eager to touch him, her own hands running over his body and slipping under the plain black tee-shirt that he wore, pulling it up so that it crested under his arms.

He stopped a moment and pulled the tee over his head. She smiled and began to kiss him down his neck, mimicking his actions with her, kissing down his chest, her hands and fingers splayed over his body, appreciating the hard, angular lines of the man.

“I want to finish undressing you,” he told her. She gave him a timid nod. He could tell she was, well, perhaps not exactly frightened, but nervous. “You tell me, please tell me, if you want me to stop, to slow up, to go away, to anything.”

“I want you. Please,” she told him her eyes bright with passion, the black centers glossy, framed by a bright blue.

He closed his eyes and took some deep breaths. He reached around to unfasten the little red and black lace bra, then slipped off the slender ribbon straps drawing it down her arms. As it dropped to her waist, he stopped and sucked in his breath.

“Rum?” she asked him, struggling not to reflexively cover herself with her arms. He wasn’t saying anything. _Was she not . . . not good enough?_

“You’re so absolutely beautiful,” he whispered. He glanced at the little slutty bra he’d just removed.

“Where . . . how . . . did you get this?” he had to ask. “It’s not like you can just go into a store and buy it.”

“Oh, I have an alternate name I use when I order off the Internet – I use the name Lacey French and nobody takes any notice,” she explained.

He considered, “Clever. Any other surprises waiting for me? Am I to expect toys or restraints?” He didn’t wait for a reply, instead tracing his fingers down from her shoulders, down to the top of her breast and then gently he circled around the soft tissue, his fingers drawn to the hardened little nub.

“No, just the naughty undies,” Belle managed to gasp out. She held her breath. She closed her eyes and felt his hand cup her breast and then felt his other hand, the warmth, the heat of his hand coming up to support the other breast. He began to drop kisses on her, dipping his head and bringing his lips down to one of her nipples, drawing it into his mouth.

He felt her hands on his shoulders.

“This is wonderful,” she encouraged him.

“You are wonderful,” he told her and tipped her back on to the bed. From this position, he was able to explore her body. His hands, his fingers, his lips all active in discovering every mystery, every offering.

_It had been so long for him – he had forgotten how soft and smooth a woman could be. He’d forgotten how really good a woman could smell. He wanted to just savor her flavor, her essence, her very being. She energized him. He wanted to have her all at once, but he also wanted to make it last, make everything last._

He slid his hand down to the fine lacy panties, his fingers slipping inside the elastic and down through her soft curls.

“Oh, Rum, I don’t know. This is too much.” She pulled back from his insistent fingers.

He stopped. “Belle, I don’t want to hurt you. I don’t want to scare you. But you are beautiful here too. I want to give you pleasure by touching you . . . here,” and he pressed his fingers, circling her feminine nub.

She shivered and took several deep breaths. “All right,” she finally said.

“Brave girl,” he told her. “Relax for me. Just feel,” he directed her. _Slow, he would take it slow for now. Later, it could be all at once, but now, now it had to be slow and soft and gentle._

So, he watched her, judging how much pleasure different motions gave her, judging by her breathing, her face, even her hands on his arms, her fingers digging in against the muscles. This was a deliberate, careful journey for both of them.

Belle felt deliciously heated, simmering as his fingers worked magic and his voice, with its soft timbre, stirred her, excited her. She felt warm and tingling and soft and receptive.

He slipped a finger into her tight channel, relishing the smooth, slick passage (and her soft cry) and, for a moment, when he felt her muscles clench his finger, he thought he’d lose all semblance of self-control. He was finding her responsiveness delightfully arousing, painfully so. He felt the moisture that had seeped from her, drawn out by his kisses and his touch. He could smell the sweet honey roses that she exuded and he longed to taste her. She was panting and he knew she was close to fulfillment. When she clutched him and tensed and then trembled and shook, giving out a stifled but true ragged cry, he knew he had succeeded in taking her on that most satisfying of journeys. Her eyes flew open.

“Rum!” she panted. “I never, I never . . . “

“I’m so honored to be your first.” _And he was. He hoped, he wanted to believe that she really did love him. He was more sure of his own feelings._

Belle reached for him, but he stopped her, suddenly realizing something critical _very critical_ , “Belle, crap! I don’t have any protection.”

“There’s a guard outside,” she told him, confused.

Gold couldn’t stop himself from smirking, “Do you think he’ll have something I can use?”

“Oh,” realization suddenly dawning. “Oooh! Oh, I guess not. Can you get something?” she asked.

“Uh . . . no. Not unless there’s a Walgreen’s around the corner.” _It had been years since he’d carried a couple of emergency condoms in his wallet. Even before going into rehab, he hadn’t been with anyone in a while . . . so, no, he wasn’t packing._

Belle considered. “This isn’t fair,” she finally said.

“It is what it is,” he agreed. “But, Belle, what kind of man would I be if I had unprotected sex with you, knowing the risks? I care about you too much.”

_And the more he thought about it, he realized that what had almost happened, oh, it wasn’t a good idea, so not a good idea. It wasn’t right. It shouldn’t happen. Ever. Whatever feelings they had for each other – she was still a royal princess and he was an ordinary reporter, likely one in his waning years._

“Belle, I should pack it in. I’m finished with the interview. I should head back home.” He’d sat up on the edge of her bed and had leaned down to scoop his clothes up off the floor.

“But you love me!” she protested, sitting up. “And I love you!” _This couldn’t be happening, not now, not when things were so close to perfect!_

“Yes, but . . . that’s all there can be between us – the feelings, these incredible, wonderful feelings.” He stood up by the bed. “Can you honestly imagine me as your . . . what would you call me? . . . your royal consort? All those government procedures and state dinners and all the court in-fighting. I’ve had enough difficulties fending off the Countess for a couple of days without making a scene. I would end up punching somebody out before it was over. Probably start a war.”

Belle pulled the cover up and around herself. “So, it’s over?” she asked.

“We may cross paths now and again. I travel a lot. I might be by Avonleigh again at some point.”

_Yeah, he told himself. Leaving was the right thing to do, absolutely the right thing. She needed to find some upright, upstanding young man with the acceptable family connections and marry him and have babies with him and be queen and take care of her people._

_Yeah, this was the right thing to do._

He gave Belle a quick kiss on the lips and peeked out of the door, looking down both corridors, making sure they were empty. He gave her one last glance, “I’ll always love you. Thank you, thank you for loving me.”

And he left her, returning to his room to sit quietly on his bed. He’d made his decision.

It didn’t take him long to get his things together, ten minutes at the most. He called and got a plane ticket back to Atlanta.

 

Belle had spent a long, sleepless night, restraining herself from sneaking down the hall to his bedroom. He might love her but he clearly wasn’t ready to make love to her _and certainly not to commit to her._ When she got up the next morning and made inquiries she found that he had indeed left, heading back to the States.

Feeling depressed, irritated, upset and bereft -- her mood was not improved when she encountered Cora in the dining room. Cora had the day’s agenda on hand. She didn’t say anything as Belle sat in her place, sullenly looking over her eggs and bacon. _Belle was remembering hash browns, topped, smothered, covered, diced, and peppered._ Eggs and bacon just looked bland.

“I understand Mr. Gold has headed back to the United States.” Cora’s voice intruded into her reverie.

“I heard that also. He felt he was finished with the interview.”

The two women sat quietly for a moment.

“I tried to warn you, tell you that he wasn’t a man you could expect to have a relationship with,” Cora told her.

Belle didn’t say anything.

Cora continued, “He uses women. Has fun with them and then moves on when he gets bored.”

Belle still didn’t reply.

“I’m sure he’s reasonably adequate ‘tween the sheets, but not sure that he would really bother addressing himself to a woman’s pleasure. He’s someone who’d be out for himself and . . .”

“Cora,” Belle interrupted. She spoke slowly and clearly, “I think, I shan’t be requiring your services anymore.”

“What!? Princess, you still have a social calendar and a schedule . . .”

“And I’m sure I’ll be able to manage. Thank you for your many years of service. I’m sure your family, especially your husband, will welcome having you back in their midst.”

Cora stood. “This is about Gold, isn’t it? You’re upset because you knew he would’ve spent the night with me if you hadn’t clumsily interrupted us.”

“I doubt that. I know him better than you. He’s a good, honorable man who really tries to do the right thing.”

Cora narrowed her eyes, sniffed and stiffly turned and walked out of the room.

“Even when he does the wrong thing,” Belle completed her thought.   

**The Interview**

It took him two weeks to edit the interview with all the videos, preparing the copy, adding in file pictures, interspersing everything with his own pictures.

Regina was on his case the entire time. _When will you be done, already? How much longer? Really, how much substance can there be in one goddamn princess interview?_

It was late in the afternoon and _typical November Atlanta weather,_ there was a thunderstorm outside, pouring cold rain down on the city. The clouds had darkened the day and it all somehow fit his mood. There was every chance that there would be a layer of sleet on the roads before evening, making I-285 a screaming tangle of angry traffic. Gold sat in front of his computer screen doing a final review. He was uncomfortable with how the piece turned out.

For one thing, it had run much longer than he’d ever intended. Even severely edited down, there was a good thirty minutes. He’d had enough for five hours.

For another, it was nothing like anything he had ever done. The interview was close and deep and very, very personal. He hadn’t realized it while he was there – he’d thought it had gone poorly, that he had never pressed her, never asked her the hard questions, but now, looking over all the material, he could tell that the princess had actually shared much of herself, everything that Regina had asked for and more. It had happened slowly, often during the off moments before and after the formal interview questioning, but things had come out, including some material that was likely to be a bombshell.

The technicians had all sat silently during the run-throughs. Usually, they were high-fiving him or giving him thumbs-up, even the occasional cheer and, exceptionally, applause. He was not used to these folks being so quiet, so absolutely quiet.

It was unnerving. He couldn’t tell what they were thinking.

But he had finally finished the project and brought it up to Regina’s glacial top floor office to watch.

He poured ginger ale over some ice, while Regina and her pert and able assistant Ariel watched the interview.

Those two sat silently, watching Princess Isabella field his questions, watching her go through her days, watching her in pensive moments, in joyous moments, in honest, open moments. When she dropped her little bombshell, they gasped. Regina and Ariel both looked over at him but didn’t say anything.

When it was over, they just sat there.

“Well?” He couldn’t stand the waiting. _Did it suck that badly? He’d told Regina he was no good at this sort of thing. It would all be her fault if she didn’t like it. He’d tried to get out of it._

He noticed Regina wiping beneath her eyes. _Lord, had she been crying?”_

Ariel spoke up first, “That was amazing. I love her,” she told him. “She’s so _real._ ” She sniffed, using her sleeve to wipe her eyes. “I feel like she’s my best friend or . . . could be . . . if I ever met her.” She sniffed again and brought out a tissue to blow her nose.

“Are you crying?” he asked Regina who was still dabbing her eyes.

“No, of course not,” Regina sniffed. “I had something in . . . both eyes.” She wiped them again and turned to him. “That was . . . amazing. I had no idea what you would come up with. I would have been satisfied with an ordinary interview, but this . . . . Gold, you’ve captured so much here. The dilemmas modern women face between family and career. The desire to do the right thing, to be a good person, to make a difference. I’m surprised you had the sensitivity to pull something like this off.”

“Thanks, I guess. So, you liked it?” he asked.

“I’d like to put together a one-week piece in which we do a short segment each night – ending with that Big Finish you were able to get out of her. Can you edit this into five-minute segments?”

“All right. I’ll get to work on it,” he shrugged and began to walk out the steely black, white and chrome office of his boss. “And for my next assignment . . .” he hesitated. “Ummm . . . I’ve got some additional leave time coming. I’m thinking of taking a sabbatical.”

“Really?” she asked.

“Yeah,” he admitted and slowly added, explaining himself, “When I got out of rehab, Dr. Hopper advised me to take some time for myself, to get my head back on, sort out my priorities, but I was convinced that getting back into work would be healing for me. I’d be able to focus on something else besides myself . . . but, I think . . . I think now that he was right. I think I need a break,” he told her soberly. “This was all pretty intense.”

“Sure, Gold. Let me know if I can do anything,” Regina told him. She and Ariel watched him limp out.

“Do you think he might quit?” Ariel asked. “He really seems out of it.”

Regina smiled and shook her head. “You know, Ariel. That man was once held for three months by a terrorist cell. It was little more than a cave, dark and damp. They held a gun to his head, probably tortured him. He somehow managed to turn it completely around and came out of it with an in-depth interview of the cell’s leader . . . and a Pulitzer. He’s beaten a drug addiction, been shot at . . . shot . . . beaten up . . . threatened . . . jailed . . . but I’ve never seen the wind taken out of his sails like this princess thing.”

“What do you think is going on?”

“I think,” Regina said slowly, “that he’s in love with her.”

“Well, she is obviously in love with him. You could see it in her eyes every time she looked at him,” Ariel noted.

**Nearly Four Months Later**

It was a peaceful, simple existence. He would get up with the sun and walk down to the nearby stream to catch a trout for breakfast. He’d return to his cabin, clean the fish and, after dousing it with a little salt and pepper, he’d pan fry it. Some mornings, he’d wash clothes in his little hand-crank washing machine. Later he’d hang the clothes up to dry, sometimes outside, but more often inside as the worst of the March mountain weather was still upon him.

The rest of his day consisted of writing, chopping wood for his little heat stove, writing and, weather permitting, walking the nearby countryside and then writing some more. He was high up, with clear views, most days, of the surrounding mountains and valleys. Fresh air. Quiet. Solitude.

Dr. Hopper _damn him_ had been right. He’d needed some time to himself. Time to sort out his priorities, what was important, what was not important.

Time to forget blue eyes and soft skin and the voice of an angel.

 

“I had the worst time finding your ass. My GPS said I was driving on open ground.” It was late afternoon, and there was the scent of snow in the air. Jefferson had driven up to the cabin in a big-wheeled black truck, the tires crunching on the gravel road.

“So, why’d you keep looking?” Gold, surprised to see his old friend, meeting him at the door. His cabin with its large windows, was far off the beaten path, on a winding, unmarked, un-maintained one-lane road

“Checking on you,” Jefferson told him honestly. “Regina sent me. She was worried.”

“Hah! Afraid I’ll never report for her again, no doubt,” Gold said. “Come on in. I’ll give you the tour.” He stepped aside for his friend to come into the little cabin. He waved his hand. “You want to see it again?”

Jefferson looked around. “Wow. This is a tight-ass little house,” he admitted. There was a countertop with food prep paraphernalia, a sitting/working area and a small wood-burning stove that heated the entire building. There was a narrow corridor which Jefferson assumed led to the bedroom and the facilities. “Jesus! How off the grid are you?”

“Composting-toilet, hot-water-heater’s-a bag-hung-out-in-the-sun off the grid. It has everything I need and nothing more,” Gold told him.

“Electricity?”

“Sometimes,” Gold answered. “I pull off a generator fed by solar and wind power.”

“Internet? Phone service?”

“Oh, none of that. I wanted to turn off a while. And I’m really shut off and away from things up here. If I want to read my emails I have to go down the mountain toward Rutherfordton to plug my phone in.”

“So,” Jefferson sat down on one of the two chairs in the place. “You don’t know.”

Gold looked over at his friend, “Don’t know what?”

“His Royal Highness of Avonleigh has called for a referendum on the monarchy. Avonleigh, being a true democracy, will have the entire country voting to decide if they want to continue with the whole having a king thing.”

Gold sharply blew out some air and sat down. “So, she went ahead and did it. She got her father to call for a referendum on the monarchy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this story is about to finish up. What do you think? Will Avonleigh vote to abolish the monarchy or will they want to keep the kindly King Maurice and the lovely Princess Belle? And, now that they’ve seen the interview, what does Avonleigh think of Belle's enigmatic, cynical reporter with all his dark past?


	11. Reunion

Gold had sat down -- considering all the possibilities. 

_Belle and her father had gone through with it, actually gone through with it – they were going to ask the people of Avonleigh if they wanted to continue with the monarchy. Belle and her father were prepared to abdicate, give up all the privileges (and, Gold knew, the responsibilities) of royalty._

“Yeah,” Jefferson nodded in agreement. “The country is going think it over and then there’ll be a big vote after the new year.” 

_Belle had told him during The Interview that she and her father had originally intended to just unilaterally dissolve the monarchy and abdicate, but then had thought that they really wanted the populace to make the decision.  They trusted their people to do the right thing._

_When he’d first heard all of this, he had been blown away. She had all her reasons, very good ones for wanting to walk away from the throne:  she didn’t think the monarchy had any place in the twenty-first century, she thought her people were more than capable of governing themselves, she thought . . . she felt . . . she believed . . . her reasons had gone on._

_But Belle also realized that all the pomp and ceremony served a purpose. It gave her people, who were a bunch of romantic sots who sincerely believed in happily-ever-afters, a unique sense of identity. They felt well represented by the royal family on the world stage. They just flat out enjoyed having the princess visit their sick in the hospital, grace the opening day of their business with her presence, and read stories to their preschoolers. He had realized that much of her job was getting her picture made with her subjects._

_But it had nevertheless been a bombshell, a major surprise. To actually have a member of one of the oldest monarchies say they had a plan to dissolve the institution and step away from the position had never been heard of before. Some might say as much, but to actually do it – it had never been done._

_And Belle and her father were definitely prepared to step away._

“A vote, huh. That sounds like Belle,” Gold remarked.

“It does,” Jefferson agreed. “Regina and I thought you might want to know they’d gone through with their plan.”

Gold shook his head. “Nice of you to think of me, but it doesn’t change anything.”

“What? No man, it changes everything. She may be giving up her throne. She may not be a princess anymore. She may just be a regular girl.”

“She’ll never be a regular girl, Jefferson. She’s a remarkable young woman.”

“Well, if the country votes to dissolve the monarchy, she’ll be a regular, remarkable young woman. Nothing standing between you two getting together.”

“Oh no, no. I don’t know that. There is a long list of stuff standing between the two of us getting together,” Gold shrugged it off. “Oh, you don’t think that people are going to think she’s doing this so that she and I . . . ? Oh, no!  I can’t imagine anything like more ludicrous.” 

Jefferson smiled at his old friend. “Listen, why don’t I bring her in and you two can talk about it.”

“What?!” Gold watched stunned as Jefferson went back out and came back in, escorting Princess Isabella.

“Belle?!” he was nearly speechless. “My god,” and he jerked her to him, moving suddenly and aggressively. He kissed her hard, holding her head in place while he ravished her mouth. It was a long kiss and they both dimly heard Jefferson cleared his throat.

When Gold finally let her go, she smiled up at him, “I was hoping for a reception like that. If it hadn’t happened, it might have been a bit awkward.”

Jefferson cleared his throat again, “Listen, I hate to interrupt you two, but I’m heading back down the mountain.  You two . . . you . . . you go ahead and work things out,” Jefferson told them.  Gold protested, but Jefferson was gone before he could make any headway.

He had not let go of Belle.

“What? How? Why are you here? I mean, I’m glad to see you and all, but . . . why are you here?” he asked.

“To see you, of course,” Belle told him.

“But . . . but why? How? Why now?” he nearly stammered.

“Grumpy, I mean, General Rêveur, suggested I take a little break from princessing, so . . . so that the people of Avonleigh could see what it’s like not to have me, a princess, around to do all the things I used to do. Lady Nolan, the wife of the Prime Minister has stepped into many of the jobs I was doing. She’s perfectly lovely and more than capable.”

“So, you’re here now?” he asked, looking down at her.

“Only if you want me to be,” she told him, but then she glanced around. “Of course, with Jefferson gone, I don’t have a ready way back down the mountain.” She was still standing with her arms wrapped around him.

“No, you don’t,” he remarked, thinking things over. “You know, the next nearest cabin is about three miles away over rough terrain. You’re completely at my mercy here.”

Belle gave him a slow smile and he felt his gut clench. “And will you be having any mercy?” she asked him.

He gave her his own crooked smile, “I don’t think so.” And he kissed her again, this time lingering over her.

They came apart slowly and Belle looked around the little cabin. “So, this is your world now?” she asked.  

“Yeah, I seem to be here for a while. Apparently, I’m writing a memoir,” he confessed. “I’ve got a publisher interested. And . . . there have been tons of requests for me to interview nubile young women since . . . since my interview with you. And Regina’s always wanting me to produce the occasional piece for ATNN news, so money’s . . . all right.”

“Nice,” Belle told him, looking around some more. “Show me where we’ll be sleeping.”

He seemed a little uncomfortable. “It’s just a single bed, a twin size.”

“I think that sounds wonderful,” she assured him.

“I still don’t have any protection,” he reminded her. “I didn’t think I’d be needing anything like that up here.”

“I brought some if you think we want to use it,” she told him, her eyes sparkling. “But right before I left Avonleigh, I had a talk with Dr. Whale and he got me, uh . . . fixed up and, unless you think you might have some unpleasant disease, we won’t need it,” she told him.

“We won’t?” _She was on birth control.  They could have sex.  The thoughts numbly registered._ He looked her over. She was dressed in jeans with a sweater over a buttoned-down shirt – his shirt. _She still looked like a princess to him._ “Maybe. Do . . . do you want to get married?” he asked, very unsure of himself.

“Do you?” she quickly asked him.

“Yeah. I do. I just never thought that you . . . that you and I . . . yes, I do,” he finally stumbled out.

“Good. I think I might like to get married too.”

“Uhm . . . did I just propose and . . . did you just accept?” he asked, confused.

“I think so,” she agreed.

“Well, we’re going to need to clean that up. Not very romantic or formal and I . . . uh . . . I probably need to meet your dad before anything official, before we make any announcements.”

“That all sounds good,” she told him. “But in the meantime, you are planning on having your way with me, aren’t you?” she asked hopefully.

“I certainly am.” And he began to pull her back to his bedroom, to the small bed. He tugged off her sweater. 

It was chilly in the back room and, helping each other disrobe, the two quickly were lying together under several warm blankets, their bodies pressed together. 

He found he couldn’t stop kissing her, touching her and she reveled in it, kissing him and touching him. He used his fingers again and this time she knew what lay ahead and quickly gave herself up to the ecstasy he so competently pulled from her.  Then he disappeared under the covers and she felt him kissing her stomach and then her thighs. 

“Rumple . . . uh . . . Rumple . . . I don’t know about this,” she cautioned him.

“Aw jeez, Belle, I’ve been imagining getting a taste of you ever since I was in your room at the palace.” She heard him complain and felt him kiss her stomach again. “I’ll be gentle, I promise . . . and, you’ll really like this,” and she felt him drop down, pulling her legs apart so that he could bury himself between them. She could feel his breath, his tongue, his lips and, faster than she would have imagined, she began to feel that now familiar tightness building. Her fingers had entwined in his hair and she unwittingly pulled on his brown locks as her own excitement built. He worked his own magic with his lips and his tongue and found herself succumbing -- willingly, eagerly, completely. She nearly came up to a sitting position as the waves of pleasure washed over her. Quite satisfied with his efforts, he slid up her body and she found herself enclosed in his embrace. He was softly kissing her and she weakly clung to him as she recovered. 

“There’s more, isn’t there?” she asked him.

“Yes, but once we cross this next line, princess, we can never go back.”

 She nearly giggled.  _The man was still convinced that he wasn’t worthy of her._

“I’m quite ready to cross the next line,” she assured him. 

“Say ‘yes,’ say ‘yes,’ say ‘yes,’” he ordered her.

“Yes,” she whispered. “Yes, yes.”

“Good,” he took this as her permission.   

But he was still hesitating as if unsure what move to make next. She nudged him.  “Is this going to be like the interview sessions? I thought you had some experience with this sort of thing.”

He glared at her. “Not doing it with a virgin,” he confessed. “Or with anyone I’m in love with. And . . . it’s been a while.”

Belle was touched. _He was so sweet._ “Well, I suspect it’s like riding a bicycle.  Now, I understand the mechanics, but I’d appreciate a little guidance.  Is it best if I lie on my back?”

He blinked and nodded.  “Yeah, yeah, that’s fine.  We can start with missionary.  That’s as good as any.  Although I kinda prefer cowgirl – it’s a better view.”

“What? What is that?” she wasn’t sure what he was talking about.

He smiled.  “I guess, I’ll have some time to explain later, but . . . not right now.” And he settled in between her legs, supporting himself above her with his arms and gently kissing her. She then felt him fumbling with the one hand that he had dropped between them. And then she felt pressure, a persistent pressure, pushing on her, pushing into her. Then, abruptly, she felt him slip inside of her, strong and hard and  . . . quite fulfilling.

“Oh,” she couldn’t stop herself from gasping.

He stilled. “You all right?”

“Yes, I just need a moment.” And she wiggled, trying to adjust to the unfamiliar sensation.

“Don’t do that,” he told her sharply. “I’m right on the edge.”

She stopped moving. “Okay then. Get on with it.”

“Get on with it?” he was looking directly into her eyes.

“Well, what?” she asked. “What am I supposed to say?”

He stifled a laugh, “Oh, I don’t know, something more romantic, like ‘take me now, you magnificent beast.’ However, ‘Get on with it,’ will suffice, princess. Hang on.” And now he began to rock back and forth, pulling away from her and then pushing back in, his penetration boring into her, deeper and deeper until he was finally buried to the hilt.

It was the most exciting, redeeming experience of his life – her tight passage caressing him, welcoming him, pulling him in, taking in his pain, his self-doubts – she was pulling him into her and he wanted this more, wanted her more, than anything he’d ever had.

He began moving faster and pulled her legs up so that she was wrapped around him. She felt him rubbing against her core, each stroke sending the most delicious sensations through her body. She knew things were coiling and building inside of her again and she knew she was holding onto him like he was the only thing in the world.

“Rum,” she blinked. “This is different. This is more . . . I . . . I . . .”

Rumple felt like he was about to explode, relishing the slick, sleek feel of her body as he labored above his Belle. He was close, too close and had begun to try to distract himself by thinking about anything else except this superb woman splayed beneath him -- his parents, Cora, his third-grade teacher, anything, anything to keep from losing himself inside of her. He wanted for her to come for him like this, with them joined together.  

He heard her, knew she was almost there and, right at the moment that he thought his head would explode, there was a sudden burst from her, her body tightening and spasming and she cried aloud, her nails going down his back, drawing blood. It was enough for him and, in the most glorious moment of his life, he let go, releasing his life force in long powerful spurts, draining him, giving his very essence to her.

He nearly collapsed, sweat dripping down his hair. He felt her lift her lips to kiss him on the chin.

“That was . . .  the best thing I ever felt,” Belle told him.

“Good. It was good,” he agreed, panting, trying to catch his breath. He knew he needed to roll off of her, but he didn’t want to leave the warmth of her body. But if he didn’t move, he’d drop onto her and crush her. And so, slowly, he rolled to one side, the size of the bed, keeping them close to each other.

He pulled her to him, spooning with her back to his front. He liked this position as his hand could wander over the more pleasant aspects of her delightful little body.

“When can we try that cowgirl thing?” she asked him, disturbing his drop into sleep.

“Uh . . . maybe later,” he said. “Sure, later,” he promised.

**A Late Supper**

He got up later to bring her a warm, wet cloth to clean between her thighs.

He gave her his most superior look. “I like knowing I’ve been your first,” he told her.

“And, I hope, my only,” she told him, nevertheless blushing under his heated gaze.

Then he had warmed up some supper for them: beans, hot dogs with no buns and canned, stewed tomatoes, and they ate curled up together in his bed, the room lit by a single oil lantern and by the moon that was shining in the night sky, its light coming in through the large bedroom window.

She was leaning up against him with one of his arms around her shoulder.

“I know you visited in this world, my world, but do you really think you could adjust to living out here with us ordinary folk, day in and day out?” he asked.

“I’m pretty adaptable. And it may not be a choice anymore if the vote goes in favor of scrapping the monarchy,” she told him.

“So, what would you do? I mean, besides warming my bed.”

“Well, I’ve already had some offers.  Ever since that interview aired, people have been asking me to write my memoirs – although, at twenty-three, I can’t say I’ve lived long enough to have a lot to say.  I’ve been contacted by a couple of movie people and there’s a reality television company that’s expressed some interest.”

Gold pulled a disgusted face.

“I already told them no,” she shared.  “I don’t know how long you plan to live on this mountain, but there are a couple of non-profit groups that would like me to go to work for them.  I could continue to help people, raise money for good causes, make things better.  I would like to do that, I think.  And, I think, I could do that and live in your world.”

“We both know that I wasn’t able to live in yours.” He realized something, “Oh shit, what if your people vote to keep the monarchy? That will put us back where we were – with me being a totally unsuitable royal consort for your very fine arse.”

“Well, yes, they might vote to keep the monarchy. That is a real possibility,” she agreed, slowly. Then she looked up at him, concern furrowing her brow. “Would that . . . would that be a deal breaker for you? Would you not want to get married if . . . if I was to continue as princess?”

He thought through his answer carefully. “Belle, I’ve managed to walk away from you twice. Both times, I thought it was the hardest thing I’ve ever done; even though, I know, both times, I felt it was the right thing to do. But, walking away from you a third time – lord, there is no way in seven hells that I’d be able to do that again. If you remain Princess Belle, I guess I’ll have to figure it out.”

“We’ll have to figure it out,” she told him. She set the plate of food aside, down onto the floor and then smiled at him, “You may be interested to know that my people saw the interview you did with me and . . . well, you’re rather a celebrity now in Avonleigh.”

“What?” he wasn’t pleased to hear this.

“Oh yes. They think you’re adorable.”

“Adorable?” he scowled.

“Yes, they really like you – really like you. Women want to be with you and men want to be you, or, at least, be good friends with you. They think you’re feisty and embody the best of Avonleigh’s traditions of the hero who fights for truth and justice . . . and gets the girl.”

“But you know I’m not any of those things,” he was shaking his head.

She kissed him on the chin. “You’re all those things. I think that my people would be very accepting were you to become my royal consort.”

“You think they’d put up with me, my moods, my temper . . . ?”

“They see you the same way that I do – as this fine, noble man, who tries to do the right thing.”

He snorted. “So, do we wait until before or after the vote to get married?”

Belle cringed. “What would you say to me having one last blast—well, probably one last blast -- as a royal princess? Grumpy has told me that I owe my people one last spectacle. They love that kind of thing. Plus, it’s a real money-maker for the entire country.”

**Six Months Later**

“Good Morrrrning Ammerrrica!” It was Ashley de la Feu.  “Welcome to The Wedding!  The whole world has been watching the whirlwind romance of the Princess Isabella and our own intrepid reporter, Rumson Gold.  You may remember the two met in Asheville, North Carolina, and the Princess gave him an exclusive interview.  That interview was aired over a week and revealed Isabella’s deepest hopes and desires, not to mention the intention of herself and her father to put the continued existence of the monarchy of Avonleigh up for a vote from their people.”

“She really dropped a bombshell with that announcement,” Mallie, sitting across from her, confirmed. 

“She and Mr. Gold have since been able to pursue a relationship and it does seem to be True Love.  Rumor is that Isabella wanted a small wedding, but there was a lot of pressure from her countrymen to give them one, possibly final, royal spectacle and she agreed.”

“We’re all waiting to see what her dress is going to look like – the princess is known for her fashion sense.”

 

Jefferson stood by Gold.  “I don’t know I’ve ever seen you this nervous,” he remarked.

“You didn’t see me when Belle introduced me to her father. I was so nervous then, I didn’t know if I should shit or go blind,” Gold confessed. He was standing in a small room off the front of the church with his son and his best friend. He’d gotten both of them to stand by him as his best men.

“How did that go?” Jefferson asked him.

“Uh . . . surprisingly well. The old guy was very pleasant, although, when she stepped out, he threatened me if I were ever to make his daughter cry.”

“Sounds like a good daddy,” Neal remarked.

“Came away with that impression,” Gold agreed. “Yeah, he certainly loves his daughter, that’s for sure. Can’t fault him for that.” He shook his head. “I’m not sure if I was more nervous then or if I’m more nervous now. I just wish Belle and I could have run off and gotten married at a court house or by some country minister.”

“You couldn’t do that because she’s a princess,” Neal explained to him.

Gold took a deep breath.  “Yeah, I guess you’re right there. At least for the time being.”  He shook his head, “I still can’t figure out why the hell she’s marrying me.”

“I can’t figure it out either, except that she really and truly loves you.  Now, _why_ she loves you . . . that’s the real mystery,” Jefferson told him.

“For me too.  But I can’t walk away.  I’m seriously, deeply in love with the woman.  She’s everything . . . she’s more than I could have ever imagined.  I’m a better man because of her.”

“You are, but then any change would be an improvement,” Jefferson was relaxed and lounging against the wall as they waited to be called to the front of the church. 

Gold laughed.  He knew his oldest and dearest friend was trying to distract him.  He knew in a few moments, he would be called out to stand and wait for his Belle to come to him.  Her father was to walk her down the aisle and give her over to him.  He knew there were television cameras there.  Apparently, all of Avonleigh and much of America and western Europe were watching the event.  He took several calming breaths.

“You’re going to be all right.  Just focus on her and you won’t notice anything else,” Neal advised him.


	12. A New Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This final fluffy chapter ran a tad long (sorry), but I didn't have enough to make two and it was time to bring all the loose ends together.

Oh yes, Rumson Gold knew that altogether too many people were watching his wedding.

It had been bad enough before the ceremony. Belle and her father had insisted he be bestowed the rank of a noble prior to the marriage. It was customary and a mere formality, Belle had assured him. And there he’d been, in a church, kneeling _on a lovely soft cushion, thanks to Belle,_ and having his shoulders rapped by the old man and some priest that he’d taken an instant dislike to. He was now Duke Stiltskin, named after an Avonleigh figure of lore. He didn’t want the property that came with the title but was still trying to choose which of several non-profit groups he should deed it to.

After the knighting, the title-bestowment, and announcement of the engagement, he’d been hounded by reporters. Rather than trying to avoid them, he’d invited them all over for a joint interview and a sumptuous meal served with a lot of Avonleigh’s best booze.

Belle did not grasp his strategy. “However are you going to get rid of them?” she’d called him late in the evening.

“Easy enough. I’ve been satisfying their curiosity and then I’m going to tell them we’re out of liquor. They’ll clear out like a shot,” he’d assured her and he’d been right.

At least now, he had built up a rapport with his fellow reporters. They seemed to get that he was approachable through a variety of channels and the whole stalking thing had diminished to a few cases of trespassing.

But now, he knew, all the media was there with their cameras.

“You’re going to be all right. Just focus on her and you won’t notice anything else,” Neal advised him.

“Brave words coming from a man who’s yet to pop the question to his own girl. Is she here?” Gold asked his son.

“Yeah, she’s the resplendent blonde sitting on the groom’s side of the aisle,” Neal told him.

“Why haven’t you asked her?” Jefferson asked the younger man.

“Who says I haven’t?” Neal shook his head. “But Emma is Miss Independent-Our-Love-Doesn’t-Need-a-Ceremony. I’m hoping coming to this marriage will change her mind and she’ll want to walk down the aisle or, at least, stand in front of a justice of the peace. I’m ready yesterday.”

“Good for you,” his dad told him. “I approve of a man who’s prepared to make a commitment.”

The priest poked his head into the room. “We’re ready for you.”

Gold took a deep breath.

“Remember, focus on her,” Jefferson reminded him.

It turned out to be good advice. Once he turned and saw her, he wasn’t aware of anything else. She was gorgeous, floating down the aisle, a vision in white and gold. Once her hand had been given to him by her father, Gold barely remembered speaking his vows and was completely unaware of walking her back down the aisle after the ceremony. They were waving to people and smiling and eventually were placed in an open carriage to take a ride around the capital.

He was enveloped within her voluminous dress, the layers of fabric totally covering up the seat and wafting over his legs. He ran the tips of his fingers over the silk of the dress’s skirt and took a moment to look at his wife.

“You do look lovely,” he complimented her and then picked up a swath of material that had landed on his thigh. “This is pretty,” he told her. “And big – really big.” There was voile and tulle and silk. He could see gold beading and some crystals on the bosom of the dress and then again here and there on the dress. It caressed her form and was most flattering.

“It should be. It’s a one-of-a-kind couture designer gown.”

“It’s nice,” he confirmed. “Now, when will all this be over?” he leaned over to whisper in her ear.

“Not soon enough,” she muttered back to him. “We have a dinner to attend and then a ball in our honor. It will likely be midnight before we’ll be able to get away.”

Gold groaned. “But I want to have a wedding night,” he protested.

“Me too, but it will more likely be a wedding early, early morning,” she told him.

“Can’t we sneak out?” he began to tempt her by planting small kisses down her neck.

“Oh, you are an imp!” she scolded him. Then as he continued to nuzzle her, she relented. “I’ll see what I can do,” she promised him. “We’ll need to stay at least for the dinner and for a couple of the dances.”

“I can’t dance. Why should we stay?” he was still intent on having his way with his bride.

“I can dance and it’s . . . it’s . . .” Oh, he was making it hard for her to think and speak coherently. “It’s customary.”

“All right,” he capitulated as they arrived at the castle in preparation for going into the great hall for the dinner reception.

They managed to make it through the meal and Belle danced with her father much to the approval of her countrymen. She then demurred additional offers for her to dance and returned to her new husband.

He was grinning at her. “I’m impressed. Being married to a woman who was trained from the cradle to be a career diplomat is going to have its benefits.”

“Let’s sneak out,” she told him with just a little gleam in her eye.

“Surely,” he immediately answered. And while others danced and partied, Gold and Belle slipped out. It was no easy feat given the sheer volume of Belle’s dress and its whiteness and flounce but somehow with much of the attention on the other attendees, they were able to manage.

Belle led the way back to her bedroom. It was still her bedroom and would be for a while. If the monarchy was dissolved, the plan was for her father to continue living in the castle but for other parts of the building to be converted into government offices and, likely, a museum for royal memorabilia. 

They were barely inside the door when he turned and pressed her against the wall, pinioning her arms above her head and kissing her soundly.

“I’ve been wanting to do that ever since that damn carriage ride,” he told her. And he pulled her over to the bed and set her down lying across the bed. He lifted her skirts revealing sheer genuine silk stockings and beaded satin slippers. He pulled off the slippers and ran his hands up her legs quickly, discovering the stockings were fastened by a white lace garter belt.

He looked up at her. “Later, I want to find out what else you have on under this dress.” Gold left the stockings on but did reach up to strip her out of the wispy panties.

She reached for him but he stayed her hand. “I want to do this, this first time as your husband,” he explained, and unfastened his pants, dropping them and his boxers. He was already engorged and more than ready for her. He dropped his hand and brushed against her. He was delighted to find that she was already wet with her own readiness, her receptiveness quite apparent and he fell on her, kissing her and pulling back just a moment to lock eyes with her.

“Love you, Belle,” he told her and pushed into her, expanding her, filling her. He bit his lip, trying not to cry out, as he felt her squeezing him, welcoming him in.

“Love you, Gold,” she managed to pant out as he pummeled her, thrusting over and over, driving her, and forcing satisfaction. She nearly screamed when her body surrendered to his dark masculine force the first time, but he didn’t stop, continuing to pummel her. And then she felt him give himself to her, to her brightness and light. And her body tightened again and exploded. She clung to him, darkness encompassing her and she nearly fainted.

Gold rolled off of her and pulled her close, wrapping his arms around her, hugging her.

“My god, Belle, I never felt anything like that,” he managed to mutter.

“It was . . . pretty . . . intense,” she agreed. “Is it always like this? I mean, I’ve only been with you. Is it like this with . . . well, anyone?”

He was still gasping. “No. What we have . . . is special.”

“Really?” she asked.

“I think so, yes,” he managed to answer even though he was about to drop off.

**Three Months Later**

“There’s a problem. I think it may require your particular talents.” It was Prime Minister Nolen talking quietly with the Prince Consort Stiltskin.

“Oh yeah? Is that ambassador still being an arse?”

“Yeah, he’s threatening us with . . . military action. Can you believe it? He’s been intimating that his country is going to send in troops.”

Gold nodded, understanding. Belle had shared with him that Avonleigh had several ogre-like, saber-rattling neighbors who coveted Avonleigh’s resources. From time to time, one or another of them would threaten to annex the smaller country, but usually, the other neighbors would form a coalition and make them back down – no one wanted any of the neighboring countries to possess Avonleigh’s resources.

Nolan, the Prime Minister, Gold had learned quickly, was a nice enough fellow, but not one for nose-to-nose confrontation, especially if one needed to be prepared to bust one of the involved noses.

Gold wasn’t intimidated by this particular ambassador – he’d been in close quarters with any number of world leaders and this guy was third class all the way – a pompous, overblown, self-important twerp.

“Send for him,” he told Nolan. “Give him a two o’clock.” Then he turned and grinned at the prime minister. “I’ll see him about twenty after two and we’ll share some Avonleigh nocino. And, uh, I guess I’ll explain things to him.”

 

That evening, Belle was waiting for him at supper. He sat across the table from her.

“How was your day?” she asked him.

“Fine. I got a lot of work done on my memoir,” he replied, trying to figure out what he might eat without packing on a couple of extra pounds. He’d gained some since the wedding – _the food was that damn good._

“Doing those last-minute corrections?” she followed up.

“Yeah, it’s about to go to print. Since marrying you, I had to add in a whole new section, and, of course, we’ll still waiting on the election results. One way or another that should make for a big finish.”

She smiled at him, “So sorry I’ve been so much trouble.”

“Not trouble – never trouble,” he smiled back at her.

“Nothing else?” she asked.

_Oh, so she knew._

“All right then,” he confessed.  “David asked me to help. And I met with one particularly pesky ambassador.”

“And?”

“I don’t think he’ll be causing any more problems,” Gold thought back to the interview.

_The ambassador was fuming by the time he brought him into his office. Gold had looked him in the eye and explained that Avonleigh would blow up the uranium mines the moment any military action was taken._

_“We’re prepared to live as a free nation of fishermen and nocino brewers if we have to. You pull this crap again, and we’ll take action against you. Avonleigh has any number of friends who won’t appreciate you trying to strong-arm us.”_

_The ambassador had stammered and muttered some apologies to Prince Stiltskin for any misunderstandings but Gold had interrupted._

_“You know damn well there have been no ‘misunderstandings.’ You’ve been trying to intimidate us. Now, let me explain some things to you. Pull this stunt again and we’ll bankrupt your arse. We’ve bought up a number of loans you people have taken out with other countries and we’re fully capable of completely destabilizing your fragile monetary system – unless you start behaving.”_

_“But . . . I’m sure . . . we can come to some understanding,” the ambassador stammered._

_“We’re not going to have this conversation again. In fact, we aren’t going to have any conversation again. You are going to return to your country and tell the powers that be that you, and, I mean you personally, are no longer welcome here. They may want to send another ambassador, one who knows his place.”_

“I understand that Ambassador Spencer left rather precipitously,” Belle said blandly.

“Really?” Gold acted surprised.

Belle looked at him a moment, “Thank you. He was being a pest.” She took a bite of food. “I would have dealt with it, you know.”

“Of course. Prime Minister Nolan had just asked me to take care of it. You need to be taking care of yourself,” he cautioned her.

“I’m fine,” she protested.

He just looked at her.

“All right. I was a little better today.” And she dropped eye contact with her husband.

“I’ll have words with the little man once he makes an appearance, I promise. Making his mother this sick . . . just poor manners,” Gold told his wife.

Belle sighed. “Have I told you today how much I love you?” she asked him.

“Actually, you have, when you were throwing up earlier in the morning and I brought you some saltines,” he told her.

“That was this morning. I’d forgotten. You must know you’ve been a godsend. I never thought . . . well, I know you’re enormously capable, but I never thought you’d step into the role of Prince Consort so easily. With my father’s health not being so good, it’s been nice to have a man step in and manage some things.”

“Like upstart ambassadors?” he confirmed, waving her off. “He was an amateur. I’ve dealt with some real heavy-weights in my time. This guy was just not used to having somebody actually making a stand and drawing a line in the sand. I think he thought we were a bunch of creampuffs.”

Belle nodded and took a few more bites. “You said ‘we.’”

He replayed what he’d said and had to agree. “Yes, and I guess I mean it. I’m an Avonleian . . . and one of your humble servants.”

“Hardly humble.”

“Well, maybe not. I do have to say the whole ‘Stiltskin’ thing has been the hardest thing for me to wrap my head around. Giving me one of the old titles – I still don’t understand why I couldn’t have just been called Gold.”

“Because it doesn’t work that way,” she explained. “And if the vote goes against the monarchy, it won’t matter anyway.”

“But if it doesn’t – I’ll be stuck with the name,” he complained. “But, I guess, if you come with it . . . I’ll manage. Now,” he changed the subject, “what have you been doing?”

She fussed with the food on her plate and didn’t answer right away. He narrowed his eyes. “You weren’t planning on picking up with your hospital visits tomorrow, were you?” Belle had been stricken with severe morning sickness and had had to curtail many of her usual activities, but he knew the hospital visits were near and dear to her heart.

“I’m doing a bit better. I thought I would visit the hospital . . .”

He interrupted, “Absolutely not! You are not to go to the hospital again unless it’s for yourself.”

“Oh, I’m sure it’ll be fine,” she began.

“No, as your husband, I . . . well, I can’t exactly forbid it, but I want to be as clear as I can be, I don’t want you going. Everybody will understand. And you know that Whale will back me up on this – and your father. Don’t think I won’t call on them if I have to.”

Belle looked at her husband. He seemed pretty determined. “But who will visit all the sick people?” she asked him in a tiny voice.

“Oh hell,” he answered. “I will. I can do that kind of smaltzy stuff.”

And Gold did, the local news people (and some international news organizations) catching him, slipping into full reporter mode, doing what he did best, listening to people talk about themselves. The hospital was full of people who wanted to share. And Gold was there to listen. And have his picture taken.

Later that day (after a phone call to Belle to check on her) he shared a drink with General Rêveur. He’d gotten to like the grumpy old military officer. He certainly kept a supply of primo whiskey and wasn’t averse to sharing it.

“If I were a suspicious man, I’d be thinking that you had invoked step forty-seven in your grand plan to preserve the monarchy,” he told Rêveur after his first drink.

“Really? Why would you say that?” the general was playing innocent.

“Well, first you sent Belle off so that her people would miss her. And then, you pushed us into that spectacular of a royal wedding.”

“Well, I didn’t get her pregnant,” Grumpy told him. “I can tell you, that’s been a real crowd pleaser. And your timing was excellent. And with the morning sickness she’s been dealing with – you stepping in. The people already liked you and now – well, they like you even more. You’re not only a good husband – you’re an all right guy.”

“Somehow, I’m thinking you planned all of this,” Gold accused the older man.

“Me? Do planning on this scale? Manipulate this many lives? Hardly,” Rêveur demurred. “I’m lucky if I can get my pants on the right way and make my buttons and buttonholes come out even.” The crusty old general shook his head. “No, no. I think this was all meant to be.”

“You think Avonleigh is going to vote to keep the monarchy?” Gold pressed him.

“Princess Isabella is more popular now than ever, especially with you and the baby helping things along.” The general refilled their glasses. “You going to be all right with that – remaining the Prince Consort?”

“I love Belle. I’ll do what needs to be done,” promised Gold. “Even taking on this over-the-top Prince Consort name. Where the hell did you people come up with ‘Stiltskin?’”

“Well, you had to have the noble rank to marry the princess and that was one of the names in our history – an old folk hero who saved Avonleigh many long years ago. It’s a name that is well beloved – a man accounted to be a sorcerer, who sacrificed himself to save the people.”

Gold finished his second drink and poured himself a third. “Well, I do see some parallels,” he observed grimly.

  **January of the New Year**

Belle considered her life.

The vote had been overwhelming to keep the monarchy.

Her countrymen and women had clearly been enamored – and approving – of her relationship with her cynical reporter – they had fallen in love with him, admiring his strength, his character, even his sometimes caustic style. They had welcomed him and were quite comfortable with him being an unconventional royal.

And her darling Rumple, he had rolled with it. He had accepted the title of Prince Consort Stiltskin, _perhaps a bit bedrugingly_. He had juggled the traditional responsibilities, sloughing some off to the Prime Minister but accepting others.

She was far along in the pregnancy now, the nausea diminished even as her waistline had grown. Ultrasound had indicated a boy and her lovely Avonleights had all celebrated (she suspected they would have celebrated if they had found out it was a girl). Yes, life was good.

 

 

  **August That Year**

The apartment was a penthouse in New York City, the rent an obscene amount. Belle had accompanied him to his interview for the ATNN morning program where he was going to talk about his latest book. She sat with him in the green room while he relaxed, readying himself for his interview with Ashley de le Feu. This book was about his experiences as a war correspondent and the follow-up when he was injured and his journey through drug dependence and his healing and then a whole section devoted to his adjustment to his current royal role.

“Gideon is going to be all right?” he asked Belle.

“He’s fine. Granny Lucas is the perfect nanny and she will take good care of him.”

“You didn’t have to come, you know,” he told her.

“I know, but I like to watch you on these interviews. You do so much better as the interviewee than as the interviewer.”

“Now that hurts my feelings,” he told her. “I’ll have you know that, before you, I was considered one of the premier interviewers in the world.”

She smiled, “And after me, you were considered _the_ premier interviewer – although you always seemed so ill-prepared when you sat across from me.”

He smiled back at her. “That’s because it was you -- and you always discombobulated me,” he confessed. He paused, “You know, by coming here, you risk Ashley inviting you onto the show.”

“Oh no, she wouldn’t?”

At that moment, Ashley burst through the door. “Oh, Princess Isabelle, we just _have_ to have you come on the show.”

“When I’m here in New York, I think of myself as Ms. Gold,” Belle replied calmly. “And I wouldn’t want to interfere with your interview with Rumple on his book.”

“But,” Ashley floundered. “But, you’re here and I can’t pass up having you on camera. I hear you’re working with one of the UN agencies, something on women’s . . . children’s . . .  rights?”

“I am, but I do want you to focus on Rumple’s latest book,” Belle repeated herself. She stood, “Perhaps I should go?”

“Oh no, maybe, after the interview with Mr. Gold, I mean Prince Stiltskin, I mean Mr. Gold, I could have you make just a couple of statements?” Ashley was backing down.

“All right,” Belle was agreeable. She looked over at Rumple who was leaning back with his best, smug, ‘I told you so,’ expression.

Rumple sat for the interview. This was easy for him. He was heading over to another network after this interview. Likely, he would send Belle back to their apartment so she wouldn’t be bombarded again. She was still a press favorite and he could hardly blame them. She was beautiful, intelligent, a genuinely caring individual.

_She was also a mother of a two-month-old, healthy baby boy, Gideon, left back at the apartment with their very good nanny. They had been talking about another baby at some point – he knew she was hoping for a girl, but he had some trepidation about having a daughter. If the child was anything like her mother, he knew he would be entirely defenseless and the girl would be able to wheedle_ _anything she wanted out of him._

Things had turned out well for him – a loving wife, a healthy son, good relations with his in-law, general respect, even admiration, from his peers, and, well, he wouldn’t go so far as to call it adoration, but interest from Belle’s subjects. He realized that they were his subjects now.

And that was still taking some time to get used to.

This was what life should be at its best. He was blessed, he realized. The intern was there to get him onto the set. “Wow, Mr. Gold. I want to be an investigative reporter like you were.”

“Well, good luck to you then. It worked out well for me,” he told the young man before he settled into his seat across from Ashley.

“Goooood daaaay Aaammmmerrrrica.!” The pretty blonde television reporter smiled vapidly out at her early morning audience. “This is your style reporter, Ashley de la Feu, bringing you an update on our very own intrepid reporter, Rumson Gold. You will remember he married the fabulous Princess Isabella, the couple falling in love after he did an in-depth interview with her. He just completed an incredible book about some of his war-time experiences and – what a treat this part was – the story of his romance with Princess Isabella. And he’s going to tell us all about it.”

Gold smiled at the camera and began.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's afterword:  
> My original plan had been for Belle to give up her throne and live out Rumple’s early imaginings as a supportive wife, albeit one who works actively with a number of charitable and social organizations. But, as this story developed and Belle’s character became stronger and stronger, I decided that perhaps Rumple should be the one to change (despite all his protestations that he wouldn’t be able to manage it). I also wanted to show that Rumple would be able to manage the changes well (I had the same faith in him that Belle has had).
> 
> If I wrote longer on this story, it would be to take them through the journey of their atypical marriage (I would see a couple of monumental arguments, at least two more children, including a little girl that would, indeed, have Rumple wrapped around her finger, and more and more of a role for Rumple in Avonleigh’s government).
> 
> Hope you enjoyed this remix of Roman Holiday.
> 
> My next story will be another remix (I don’t know why I seem to be on this kick -- in this rut? -- but my original Rumbelle story “Windswept” is only onto the second draft and not ready for prime time). Look out for My Fair Lacey (which you should recognize as My Fair Lady). I’ve included a short excerpt.
> 
> “You don’t think it can be done?” 
> 
> “I think it may be the most audacious experiment I’ve ever heard of,” Jefferson admitted. 
> 
> “You willing to help?”
> 
> “I may be, but I want some clarifications.”
> 
> Gold had flopped down in one of his luxurious leather chairs. “Sure. What would you like to know?”
> 
> Jefferson hesitated. “I don’t like the idea of you having her move in here if . . . well, we know what she does for a living . . . and . . .”
> 
> “You think I might take her payment out in trade?” Gold asked him archly. He shook his head, “Let me assure you, she is not the tiniest bit attractive to me. I prefer women who are intelligent, more refined and less . . . cheap.”
> 
> “That’s good to know.” Jefferson finished his drink. “All right then, I’m in. I’ll go so far as to help fund the education of . . . good lord . . . we don’t even know the young woman’s name.”
> 
> “Does it matter? I’m sure it’s something that screams white trash – like Enigma Jean or Tammy Lurline.”
> 
> “But we have to have something to call her,” Jefferson protested.
> 
> “We’ll wait until she’s steamed-cleaned and deloused, and we’ll ask her. We can sit her down for a meal.” Gold speculated.
> 
> “I’m curious if she can use a napkin,” Jefferson told him.
> 
> “I’m curious to see if she can use a fork,” Gold responded.
> 
> -txm


End file.
